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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25158121">Charcoal and Roses</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinatesky/pseuds/Infinatesky'>Infinatesky</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Betrayal, Blood and Injury, But not entirely in a healthy way, Emotional Manipulation, Getting Together, Hallucinations, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, How far would you go for love?, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness As A Main Character Trait, M/M, Minor Alana Bloom/Will Graham, Murder Husbands, Obsession, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Philosophy, Power Dynamics, Running Away, Slow Burn, Unnecessary Details About Coffee, We have arrived at the Mutual Pining!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:22:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>67,789</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25158121</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinatesky/pseuds/Infinatesky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>University AU. A hungry, lonely Hannibal finds Will Graham to be a delightfully entertaining new toy, but Will won't be so easily played with.</p><p>-</p><p>Pebbles bounce off of Will's wet skin and click against each other as he's pulled to sitting. Firm fingers hold his jaw. </p><p>Through squinted eyes weighed down by wet eyelashes, Will finds Hannibal’s face hovering only inches from his own. He can't figure out why Hannibal’s hand isn’t letting him move, or letting him open his mouth to speak or take a deep breath.</p><p>“Ask me.” The river and the birds and the wind, all cut by Hannibal’s voice.</p><p>Will stares at him, breathes through his nose, waits.</p><p>“Ask me to save you.” Hannibal’s fingers tighten around Will’s jaw, lift it how he wants it. Levels their eyes, then relaxes.</p><p>Will shivers as a gust of wind pins his soaking shirt to his back. His chest aches at its center. He doesn't register himself speaking until the words have already left his mouth: “Save me, Hannibal.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>91</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>244</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Hidden on the Hill</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Is there truely only one villain in each story?</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If I can't be at a uni campus because of Miss Rona than I'm going to write about somebody who can, gosh darn it!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>1.1</b>
  </p>
</div><p>The heavy door swung shut behind Hannibal along with a whoosh of cold air from outside. Although still technically in late summer, the elevation of his university brought with it colder temperatures and rainy days, overcast skies rarely broken by the sun. He preferred it, and took the opportunity to make use of his wide array of coats. The one he wore now, not too heavy but long enough to touch his knees in the front, he unbuttoned. It fell open around him and was tossed in a practiced arc over the crook of an elbow. He was three steps into the  library. </p><p>For a lesser known school, W.S. Rowall University boasted an extensive collection of books. They surrounded him on all sides, dark reds and pitch blacks with golden lettering; small white paper-bound manuscripts; carts carrying the popular books waiting to be reshelved. Hannibal took in a long breath and could all but taste the paper and ink, with a hint of wood-smoke. A fireplace in the far corner cast blood orange shadows against the marble floor. He listened to his shoes click as he approached the librarian’s desk. Any unflattering opinions he had of her, he kept to himself. </p><p>“Good evening, Claudia.” </p><p>“Hannibal. I wasn’t expecting you so late.” The librarian bent down, the top of her head with its wispy grey hairs just visible over the edge of the counter. She straightened up again with a stack of books balanced in her arms. Hannibal reached to take them from her, and tucked them against his chest. A quick scan of the titles confirmed that she’d selected the correct volumes. All but one. </p><p>“<i>The Plague</i>? By Albert Camus?” </p><p>The librarian’s hands moved slowly over her keyboard. Hannibal bit his molars together as he waited. “Should have been returned just earlier. I’ll see if it’s on the shelf.” She made to move away from her computer just as Hannibal stepped briskly back from the counter.  </p><p>“I am more than comfortable with the Dewey Decimal System. Please, allow me.” </p><p>He didn’t hear any mumbled disagreements from Claudia as he walked off, although they could have been lost to the sounds of the library. The distant flutter of pages flipping and muddled whispers alluded to at least a few other patrons, hidden in amongst the tall, stacked shelves. The only light came from large golden-white bulbs hanging in chandeliers. They cast the shadows directly down on themselves. The windows Hannibal knew existed were indistinguishable from the dark walls now that the sun had set. </p><p>Hannibal shifted the books he was holding to the ground by his feet once he’d located the right section. He stepped around them to trace the row of books down the aisle. He didn’t touch the spines, but from the way his eyes bit into them he knew what they would feel like: soft and dusty where the books had fabric dust jackets, or the slight texture of the lettering on the larger volumes. Calab, Calkin, Camani… Camutari.  He doubled back and looked at the books again, despite trusting his eyes to have seen it correctly the first time. His book was missing.</p><p>In between Joseph Camani's monster of a novel, and Gia Camutari's flimsy paperback, there was a sliver of space. Not big enough for the full book, but perhaps— he used his hands now, pushing the two books apart. With each book pushed flush to its neighbor, the space expanded. Very recently, someone had taken <i>The Plague</i> from its place here. Too recently for the library pages to have circulated and rebalanced the shelf. Recently enough, even, that the culprit could still be nearby.</p><p>Hannibal stilled, ears trained for breathing, or a flipping page. He heard now only the buzz of lights above him. The shining floor which he so loved mocked him, as he couldn’t take a step in any direction without causing too much noise. His attention was drawn by a crinkle from the other side of the book shelf. </p><p>He crouched down to the floor, looking not at the volumes but past them, as if he could see through the paper and plastic to the other side.</p><p>“I believe you have taken my book,” he said to the empty air. There was no immediate response, and Hannibal questioned briefly the possibility of a mistake. Nobody had taken interest in this particular novel for quite a while.</p><p>A voice came through the shelf in its own time. “Since I’m holding it, I think it's my book.” It was a boy’s voice, thin and scratchy. Unsure of itself. Hannibal leaned farther into the bookshelf. He tucked his coat onto the floor and let his knees rest on top of it. </p><p>“I didn’t know this book to be popular,” he said.</p><p>A chuckle. “It’s not.” </p><p>“And yet, just today, three people have looked to read it.” Hannibal wondered if the boy would follow. </p><p>He did so wonderfully. “Not three. I returned it earlier today.” </p><p>“Why didn’t you finish before returning it.”  </p><p>The boy on the other side of the shelf shifted. A sharp, quick noise like a zipper hitting the shelf sounded, clear and less dampened by the books than his voice had been. Caught off guard? </p><p>“Did I surprise you?” </p><p>“With that? No. An easy assumption. And an incorrect one. I came back because I lost a page of notes for a class, and wanted to see if I'd left it folded between the pages.” </p><p>Hannibal closed his eyes, preparing his next words. "I did not mean to presume anything. I simply wished to enquire as to why a clever person such as yourself would rush to collect a note which most likely would have still been there come morning." Silence from the other side of the shelf. “And I do believe you to be clever," Hannibal finished. </p><p>“Maybe I just didn’t want the notes to get lost. Notes are a lot of work.” He spoke from behind the shelf with an edge of annoyance. </p><p>“You’re less concerned about losing this paper, than you are about someone else finding it.” </p><p>“I—” </p><p> "Professing your love, or announcing its end?”  </p><p>"Neither,” he answered too quickly. </p><p>The sides of Hannibal's mouth lifted as he let the last few words go. “Every relationship can only end one of two ways. On which path do you find yourself now?"</p><p>No answer. After a tense silence, Hannibal heard the boy stand up. He watched from his side as <i>The Plague</i> slid into its space. The boy kept his face hidden. </p><p>“You’re kind of a dick, you know that?” It was hardly more than a whisper, and it didn’t sound as put off as the wording would suggest. </p><p>Hannibal flicked the book off the shelf and pushed his face up to the space that it left, but only saw a shadow of the boy’s back as he turned the corner. He had a thin, wiry build and hair that curled at the edges. He could be any number of people. </p><p>Stepping back to a more respectable distance for browsing, Hannibal let himself draw a slow breath in through pursed lips. He pushed an unwanted emotion away, and bent to pick up his pile of books and his coat. </p><p>Whoever the boy was, he lived in loneliness. </p><p>That was something Hannibal knew all too well. </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***  </p>
</div>Will had run from the library all the way back to his dorm room before realizing that the note was missing a noticeable portion. He hung his head back in defeat and fought the urge to groan audibly. It hadn't been a good note. He was generally crap at anything to do with feelings. It had been, however, the best he was ever going to do, and now he would be empty handed against Alana and her superior way with words. He felt heavy in his soul as the possibility of him getting his point out dropped to about a zero.<p>Chris, Will’s roommate, watched him passively from his bed. They shared a room the size of a closet, and so had precious few secrets between them. Chris wouldn’t push, and if Will said nothing, he would let it go. Will could get into his own bed and pull the thin sheet over his head in feigned sleep and let that be the end of it. </p><p>“I’m going to break up with Alana.” Somehow, he decided to tell Chris anyways. </p><p>“I don’t think you can break up with somebody who isn’t your girlfriend.” Chris threw a softball at the ceiling as he spoke. He reached up to snatch it from the air on its way back down. </p><p>Will sat down on the edge of his bad, smoothed the crumpled, ripped paper out over one knee. “Turn her down, then. You know what I mean.” </p><p>“I’ll never understand you.” Chris said. Will had to stifle a laugh. That seemed to be the general consensus.  </p><p>“She isn’t right for me. I’m not right for her.” </p><p>“Dude. She’s hot and smart. What else do you need?” He caught the ball once more. “Actually, never mind what you need. Your expectations are way too high. Do me a favor and point her in my direction after you break her heart.” </p><p>Will left Chris without a reply and hoped he took the hint. He sorted out his school things, taking a mental inventory of the homework and assignments from the day, and ducked out to use the communal washroom down the hall. He held his toiletries bag in one hand, still trying to hide the fact that he kept his toothbrush and soaps together in a plastic disposable dollar store bag. </p><p>He stuck his head under the tap and shook out his hair like a dog. Standing back upright to put soap on his face, he let the water drip down and soak his shirt collar, turning the dull grey to a sticky black. The water had finally managed to heat up when he splashed it up to rinse the soap back off, and in his haste to feel the warmth he ducked his head under the water once more, underestimating how hot it would be. He pulled away from the tap with a hiss. </p><p>“Having a go with the sink?” A passing remark from some boy on his way to the toilets. Will ignored it. He swiped his towel over his face, relishing the dark detachment from the world around him as he covered his eyes. He imagined the world turning to dark on its own, like a ship submerged entirely under the sea. Slime dripping from the ceiling, falling onto him in big, hot globs, dark with a red undertone. Drowning him into obscurity. Will pulled the towel from his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair to pull in back away from his forehead. In the mirror he saw his reflection. All he saw was his reflection. </p><p>He released a shaky breath and returned to his room.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><p>Nobody else lived in Hannibal’s dorm room. Two beds stayed empty, two rooms unoccupied. He didn’t need to ask his Aunt and Uncle to know that they weren’t paying any small fee to rent him the entire suite. He would like to think that they were doing it entirely out of the goodness of their hearts, but a part of him knew that it was just as much, if not more so, because they were scared of him. Scared of what he might do if put in a room with someone so unsuspecting and easily accessible. Like putting a baby deer in the cage with a lion. </p><p>He made use of the space. One room was where he slept, one where he studied (all three desks pushed together to create a grand table the entire length of the wall). The third room he kept as a space to think. The window was open as much as possible, the material blinds pushed aside and tied to the wall, bottoms blowing in the breeze. It was in this last room where he settled down now, kicking his shoes off and sitting in the center of the bed. He didn’t turn any lights on, instead let his eyes adjust to the muted glow from the streetlight outside. </p><p><i>The Plague</i> sat on his lap. He held it with both hands, closed with the book’s spine pressing into his thighs. He released his hands slowly, allowing the book to fall open naturally. It flopped flat roughly in the middle, onto an insignificant page that Hannibal didn’t immediately read. He couldn’t pull his eyes from the scrap of paper trapped tucked into the binding. </p><p>Could the boy have been so careless, returning to the library in such a hurry only to fail in collecting his note? No, he hadn’t failed. Merely made an error. With slow, precise movements, Hannibal pulled the leftover scrap of paper away from the binding. He could make out two words, and below that a half sentence:</p><p>… uncertain, harmful..<br/>
Impossible to know… </p><p>Dangerous. Unknowable. Hannibal had half a mind to frame the note and hang it from his wall, or perhaps tape it to his bathroom mirror to see every morning alongside his own reflection. Instead, he switched rooms, over one to where his bookshelf was kept. Arranged in a more complex system than the school library, his own books lined five rows, from the ceiling to the floor. He bent to reach the lowest shelf, where he kept the heaviest, bulkiest books like textbooks and manuals. He found what he was looking for by muscle memory, his hand forming easily to the familiar shape. </p><p>Art Nouveau cover, crisp but frail pages: this book was visibly old. Once opened, it was also rather outdated, and written with language so archaic even Hannibal occasionally had to reread a line. As far as medical texts went, this offering was closer to a fairy tale than anything that could be used with any accuracy to learn about the human body. It did, however, possess many haunting, coloured diagrams. There was one in particular that Hannibal could find with his eyes closed from how often he sought it. He flipped the book open to that page now, and looked at the image with what he imagined a mother would feel while watching her child complete a simple yet endearing task.</p><p>The shape of the organ had been stretched too long, forcing the veins and arteries to branch off in odd places. Despite its flaws, Hannibal could imagine this drawn human heart beating, oozing blood. If he focused he could feel the weight of it in his hands, the firmness and warmth. The diagram was made better for its mistakes. He had yet to come across anything perfect that stayed that way once known; this heart had the audacity to show you its wrongfulness plain and simple. </p><p>He placed the fragmented note on the open page, tucking the corner into the binding as it had been in <i>The Plague</i>. From one dark space to another. After allowing his eyes to scan the scrawled letters once more, he closed the book and returned it to his shelf. </p><p>He slept quickly that night. The thought of the letter tucked between the pages, tucked beside his beating heart, felt like someone in the room with him. He closed his eyes and wound his hands in the blankets, feeling the tug of them against the bed. He breathed in and out and could nearly convince his ears to hear someone else breathing at the same time, lungs and heart, ribs and blood. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading. Please don't be shy to comment--I'd love to hear what you think or answer any questions you may have!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Cages</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hannibal goes looking for entertainment. Will talks with Alana. A first face-to-face meeting is planned.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The updating schedule will be Sundays with the odd Thursday post if I'm ahead on my editing.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
<b>1.2</b></p>
</div><p>All of the young adults walking the grounds wore backpacks full to bursting. They looked like crowds of turtles, seconds away from overbalancing and landing on their backs. How easy prey they would be like that. Hannibal took a long inhale of the air through his nose and smelled clearly the oncoming rain. He hoped they had bothered to pack rain jackets along with whatever else they felt they so needed weighing them down. Doubtful. Half of them couldn’t even successfully remember to zip up their enormous bags. The zippers strayed open on one side or at the top, exposing the innards.</p><p>Although there were a large number of them whom he could tell would jump at the opportunity to be his friend, none of the options excited him. They lived in a different plane of existence, muted, as if he was watching them through glass. Occasionally one of them made a remark or caught his eye and cracked the glass, but never more than that. Their lips move and their eyes locked, but nothing except a low mumble tumbled out. The majority of the students were milling about at this time of the day, waiting to start classes. Hannibal watched as they broke from the ebb and flow of bodies to talk in groups, wound into tight circles, hands and feet moving in and out of the space like some sort of dance. He adjusted the collar of his coat and scanned the crowds.</p><p>Hannibal was in the mood to peruse.</p><p>A tall figure with hunched shoulders caught Hannibal’s eye as he recognized his former Philosophy TA. The student—Charles, Hannibal remembered with little searching—stood some ways away from the largest accumulation of students, and appeared to be talking with two others. He and Charles hadn’t agreed on everything, and their conversations had occasionally come close to alighting with opposition. Even from this distance, he could tell from the way Charles's body was inclined that he seemed to be conversing quite passionately. Hannibal let go of his usual social graces, and ventured onto the dance floor in search for something exciting.</p><p>He stopped a few feet away from their circle to listen to their conversation and couldn’t resist loitering; they were in the middle of a debate.</p><p>“If we didn’t have a moral obligation to obey the law, everything would go to chaos. This doesn’t change because you think the law is unjust.” This was said by the only girl in the group. She wore a deep purple-gray coat and had her hood thrown over her head. Hannibal couldn’t make out her eyes.</p><p>Charles stood up taller, puffing his chest. “So your stance is that we must obey the law only to prevent the fallout from not obeying the law?” He flung his hands about. “Normative moral claims don't need to be related to an authority figure. We ought to uphold our word even when the task is inconsequential. When there's no authority figure present.”</p><p>The girl put her hands on her hips, no doubt planning her retaliation. Charles's eyes dashed across her face, and dipped down over her body. Hannibal took a breath and slid in.</p><p>“Taken in another light, there must always be an authority figure present, even if such figure is more abstract," Hannibal said. The three older students looked to him with confusion. He continued his argument. “Society has many rules in place that we might follow without even realizing it. Take the example of a family member asking you to look after their pets while you are away. Once you agree, you ought to uphold your end of the deal; you cannot give up halfway through and cease feeding the animals. We abide to a general, unspoken agreement that one must stick to their word, and not knowingly cause the untimely death of a pet. We are implicitly told to uphold ourselves to certain morals, the same as we would be by a more apparent authority figure.”</p><p>The girl, whom Hannibal had agreed with, leaned her head towards him in a way that Hannibal could only describe as a welcome. She opened her mouth as if to speak, thin pink lips curling to reveal perfect teeth. She didn’t get a single sound out before Charles was body checking Hannibal out of the circle.</p><p>“I don't remember asking you, Lecter.”</p><p>“And yet I trust you appreciated my input.” Hannibal ground his heels into the earth, pushing back just enough to stay in the same place.</p><p>“I disagree. I think you still have a lot to learn.”</p><p>“Higher education can only take the common mind so far. This for you, of course. It would be wise for you to seek alternative means to impress that girl; she’ll out-debate you every time, with my help or not.” The shove to the ground that Hannibal received hadn’t been surprising. Human emotions were so tedious, especially where feelings were concerned. The group began to scatter around him as he righted himself, surveying the damage. He’d landed in grass wet from the dew and only hoped it wouldn’t leave a green stain on his pants leg.</p><p>Charles stood a few feet back, as if frightened of Hannibal’s retaliation. He didn’t let this fear stop him entirely, as he pulled a card out of his pocket and leaned in to fling it at Hannibal’s chest.</p><p>“That’s my tutoring information. I check my email on week days.” These were what Charles chose as his parting words before disappearing into the folds of students. Written across the card in large, shaky letters, Charles had very eloquently stated ‘Fuck you!’ All of his information was still legible. Hannibal smiled inwardly as he tucked the card safely away. Perhaps he’d made a bigger impact on the TA with his input during classes than he’d thought.</p><p>Never mind their past, Charles had been rude, and Hannibal hated rude people; one day he would pay. For the moment, Hannibal appeased himself simply with a slow walk around the school ground. This time he carefully avoided each group of students, allowing a wide berth and obviously eschewing eye contact. He paid attention to the buildings, noting the growth in the ivy climbing the brown brick walls, and the smudgy windows too high up to see into. He kept one hand in his pocket, tracing the hard edge of Charles’s card with the pads of his fingers. Nobody stopped Hannibal during his walk. A few people called to him to say hello, and he nodded to them. Occasionally raised a hand in a wave. He hardly noticed, as he was too deep in thought to be more than partially present in the real world.</p><p>He had been hit with the notion that he was missing something, which was not uncommon. What made this time so much more gripping than the others was that for once his brain offered a different solution. It yelled at him to find the boy from the library. The boy, find the boy. The other urge was still present, of course. Not a day went by where it wasn’t, like an undercurrent, bubbling and swirling and waiting to pull him in. The two mixed together until Hannibal couldn’t completely tell them apart, dark water crashing against volcanic sand. It was impossible to know which was more dangerous.</p><p>All he felt for certain was that he would give in to one sooner or later.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><p>Alana looked down at Will with her big, dark eyes and a rock hard expression that made Will go weak in the knees. He was both glad and uncomfortable to be sitting down, like something lesser than her, not quite as strong or as sure.</p><p>“You wanted to talk?” Their lab had just ended, and the room still smelled like formaldehyde.  The students had been quick to clear out, presumably in the search for fresh air, leaving Will and Alana alone all too suddenly. Since last night when he had written, lost, and reclaimed the note, Will had been putting off thinking about exactly what he would say, hoping that when it came down to it his brain would be able to provide him something in the moment. Instead of loosening his tongue, all that the adrenaline seemed to do for him was lock his joints in place so that he couldn’t leave. Like the opposite of a fight or flight reflex. The unwanted third option of ‘give up and die’. </p><p>“I don’t have all day. Neither do you.” Alana kept looking at him with unwavering eye contact. Will blinked and looked away. </p><p>“Do you think-” Will cleared his throat and wiped his palms against his thighs. He kept his gaze trained on a workstation across the room. Someone in a lab coat was measuring fluids in clear beakers. He meant to try again, was aware that he'd yet to get out a complete sentence, but his mouth stayed closed. Between the option of talking about his feelings and staying wound up in this tense silence, Will would choose the silence every time. He could let his mind wander, and forget what was going on altogether. Go somewhere else until it was safe to return. </p><p>He wouldn’t do that, though. Alana stood right in front of him, waiting. She was not the type of person with idle time to spare: she would have planned this conversation into her day, pushing a meeting or study session just for him. For Will. Because Will said they needed to talk. He cleared his throat and rubbed his hands on his thighs. He looked straight ahead. </p><p>He thought about the library, the conversation. Although it was the type of voice one would remember, he hadn’t recognized the sound through the shelve. Presumably, then, it had been spoken by someone he’d never met before. Some mystery student who also took books from the philosophical fiction section. Will couldn’t place the feeling he’d gotten while listening to the boy’s voice; it hadn’t been joy, or anything solely positive. There had been a strange, dark quality to his voice that had made Will want to pull away at the same time as it had enticed him in. An unfamiliar feeling, at once terrible and terribly addictive. He’d go his whole life looking for that feeling again. </p><p>“Will?” Alana’s face, frowning now, loomed over him. “Come on back to the land of the living.” </p><p>“I. Feel— ” He wanted to punch himself in the gut for that eloquent line.</p><p>“Good for you.” Alana’s tone conveyed an eye roll more so than the actual motion or lack thereof of her eyes. Will didn’t know if she had or not. He’d looked away again. </p><p>Will squeezed his eyes shut, and forced himself to say something. “I’m going home this weekend. My dad needs help with the boat. Two man job.” It wasn’t a lie: his dad had asked him twice now to help him out. Will had been putting it off, but this weekend was as good of a time as any. </p><p>Alana placed a hand on Will’s knee. Her long fingers like a skeleton against his dark pants. She pressed weight into the hand, leaned in towards him. Will fought the desire to lean away from her. </p><p>“That’s what you wanted to tell me?” </p><p>“Yes.” He said it like a confession. </p><p>She looked at him for a long moment as she might a complicated math equation. He wondered if she’d have any luck finding the solution, and if she did could she please tell him. After what felt like an uncomfortable eternity, she backed away, dusted her hands off, and had left the room in three long strides. Will remembered to breathe. His lungs were full of sand. </p><p>“Fuck,” he whispered. Alana had never specifically asked to be his girlfriend; they had never even gone out and explicitly used the word ‘date’. Still, whatever she and Will were doing made him feel trapped. He worried for himself, and he worried for her because of himself. There were too many unknowns, and too many emotions. He might end up breaking it off with a text. At least then it would be over with. </p><p>People always said that these sorts of things were better to do in person, but he had tried that and come out of it no closer to what he wanted and committed to an unwanted weekend back home. People didn’t know what they were talking about.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><p>Hannibal removed his gloves and tucked them into a pocket. The leather of the armchair beneath him pressed into his bare fingers with a cold sort of comfort. It was the same time as he’d been at the library yesterday, and as if the same moment was repeating over again, he’d followed his feet back to the same section as well. The titles and authors written on the spines of the books from their shelf were closer to lines of contrasting colour than individual letters from this distance, but he could still pick out the place where <i>The Plague</i> would go. He’d finished the book already, read it over lunch, and would return it in a day or so. The attachment he felt to it was what had held him back from returning it sooner: its connection to the boy and their conversation. Aside from the note, their shared library book was the only physical evidence that Hannibal had to prove that the moment had existed at all.</p><p>One-off things needed more tangible proof than commonplace things. If the boy returned, and perhaps had another conversation, or expressed an interest in continuing to do so, Hannibal wouldn’t need to keep a physical reminder. He’d returned to the library on an assumption that, if explained out loud, would sound unlikely. He felt, however, confident in the decision. </p><p>Hannibal drew a black pouch from his messenger bag and unfurled it to expose a row of sketching pencils, all razor sharp. He chose one, a harder graphite to begin with, and bit it in his teeth as he used both hands to close the case once more and trade it for a sketchbook. He’d accidentally bought a book with flimsier pages than he was used to, and as a result this current sketchbook had folds and bends at the corners. He flipped to an empty page and smoothed it down the best he could before taking the pencil from his mouth and pressing the tip into the cream-coloured paper. </p><p>It wasn’t until he’d finished the outline that Hannibal realized he’d begun to draw the boy’s receding back from the night before. He’d changed the lighting, brought it to the side to illuminate the boy’s shoulder bones through the thin material of his shirt, the gentle dip of his neck, the highlights in his hair. Hannibal withdrew a darker pencil and took once more to the sketch, adding depth with shadows and finally shading in the background to show off the whites. </p><p>The sketch functioned better than a photograph to bring life onto the page. Hannibal looked at the shading along his back, and watched as it shifted and the boy turned, shoulder first, and finally started to show his face. Hannibal blinked just as he was turning, and when he focused his eyes to the drawing once more it had returned to how he’d drawn it. Just the back of a figure, more than that, just some lines and smudges on the page. Hannibal placed one hand flat over the drawing, concealing it. He had half a mind to rip it apart. </p><p>Instead, he held it up to let the light shine on it more evenly. As he looked up from his lap, he caught movement through the cracks in the bookshelf, as if someone had come and sat down behind it. Hannibal licked his lips and slowly returned his pencil to its proper place, and everything back into his bag. He adjusted his sleeve cuffs as he stood, and rolled his shoulders back. In a few strides he had crossed to stand in front of the bookshelf. </p><p>“Hello,” he said. </p><p>Tonight the boy didn’t hesitate to reply through the barricade of books. “I didn’t know if you’d come or not.” </p><p>“I did. I’ve been expecting you.”  Hannibal took a step to one side, pushed up on the balls of his feel. No angle let him see through to the boy on the other side. </p><p>“You knew before I did, then. I’ve been trying not to think about you,” the boy said enticingly. </p><p>Hannibal gave up looking for the boy’s face through the meager spaces between the books and instead turned his back to the shelf. He sat down, leaning against it. “Do you avoid thinking about things often?” </p><p>“My thoughts are often not tasty.” </p><p>“Nor mine.” Hannibal had ways around that, though. Sections of his mind designated to different places and ideas, measures to keep dangerous or unwanted thoughts separate. “No effective barriers?” </p><p>“I’ve tried.” The boy on the other side moved, his feet shuffling on the floor. Hannibal imagined that he as well had chosen to sit against the bookshelf, and that they might be back to back. “I can’t tell if I’m fencing them out or caging myself in alongside them.” </p><p>“How do the animals in the zoo know that they are caged, if they have never lived freely?” </p><p>“Maybe they don’t.” </p><p><i>Very good,</i> Hannibal thought. “Tell me, are you caged?” </p><p>“I guess I wouldn’t know.” The boy said it humorlessly, although he punctuated it with a short, dry laugh. Hannibal had to see him, look at his face, understand him. </p><p>“Will you come around the shelf?”</p><p>“Face to face with you? You could be anybody. You could be a serial killer.” </p><p>Hannibal had to smile. “I assure you, I am a student, just like yourself.” </p><p>There was a brief pause. The boy answered softly, “Not tonight.” </p><p>“I shall return again tomorrow.” </p><p>“I won’t be here tomorrow. I’m heading home for the weekend.” </p><p>“May I join you?” Hannibal’s jaw stiffened and he knew he couldn’t let this boy be so far away.  Let himself be so in the dark, while the boy could be anywhere, with anyone. </p><p>“Again, I don’t know you. I don’t even know what you look like,” the boy said, but he hadn’t disagreed. </p><p>“Our first real meeting, then.” Hannibal thought of the drawing, safely inside his sketchbook, and the possibility of seeing more of the boy, all of him. “I’ll be waiting for you by the gates after your last class.” </p><p>The gap in their conversation inflated like a balloon. Hannibal held his breath the entire time, as the only way to know that they hadn’t really been sitting in silence for hours. Finally, the voice through the shelf said, “okay.” </p><p>Hannibal could have driven a knife through Charles’s heart earlier that day, and it still wouldn’t have made him feel as electrified as he did now. He wandered back to his dorm room in a sort of craze, and part of his brain worried that he would indeed find the opportunity to immediately stab Charles, if only as some sort of a celebration. Now was not the time, and he managed to make it inside, up the stairs  and lock his door before losing himself. He closed and locked his bedroom door as well. This was a physical cage, merely a nod to the barricades he had for the same purpose cemented inside his skull.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The main ideas from their philosophy debate all came from an r/philosophy Reddit discussion. If you didn't want to read that part, all you need to know is that Hannibal wanted to have a conversation with an old Philosophy TA, but ended up offending him and was pushed out of the conversation. The TA now presumably has a limited time to live.</p><p>Did you catch Hannibal and Will's quotes from ep 1 of the TV show?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Illusions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Will and Hannibal see each other, and don't see each other.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A Thursday update for you lovelies! Enjoy :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>1.3</b>
  </p>
</div>Will packed his books and pens into his backpack in slow motion. Now that the last class of the day had finished, nothing more stood between him and the voice from the library. <i>Meet me at the gates after your last class.</i>  Will supposed he should've been worried about identifying the right person, but somehow the unknowns didn’t bother him. They were two magnets, racing towards each other, impossible to miss.<p>Of all the stupid and reckless things he’d done, walking empty-handed away from the school this evening felt like one of the most sincere. It was unguided, and probably dangerous, and he couldn’t even picture doing anything else. He only wondered if he should've brought his car with him after he'd already arrived at the end of the long drivewa. Ahead of him,  the hill dropped off and the trees below disappeared beneath a cluster of clouds. Surely, he’d have to drive himself back. </p><p>A light mist of rain began to swirl around, dampening the tips of Will's hair and curling them around his face. Will zipped up his hoodie and took his phone out of his back pocket, but of course the stranger hadn’t messaged him. He began to wonder just how far he’d let this go before he called it off. If the boy didn’t show up, Will would go back and wait for him in the library; he might just wait for him everyday in the library until death did him part. Lord help him. Will had just turned to walk back to the school and get his car when an imposing sport sedan nearly knocked him onto the grass. </p><p>The driver’s side window was too dark to see inside. It lowered, just enough for the driver to stick a hand out the crack at the top. The hand motioned Will forwards. </p><p>“Please come in.” It was the voice from the library. Will shook his head in disbelief, and told himself to be rational. His legs carried him around the car and his hand placed itself on the door handle. Will’s last thought before letting himself into the car was for a quick death, if nothing else. </p><p>He couldn’t convince himself to look at the driver, not immediately. The driver felt no qualm about looking at him; the weight of his gaze raked over Will’s face and chest, and down to land on his hands clasped stressfully in his lap. Will had half a mind to push the hair away from his eyes and sit up straighter, although he didn’t understand where the urge to present himself was coming from. </p><p>“Not fond of eye contact?” </p><p>Will kept his eyes glued to his window, as if to prove the point. “Eyes are distracting,” he said. </p><p>“Will you at least look at me for our introductions?” As the stranger had asked, Will turned his head slowly, and at the last possible moment ripped his eyes off of the green grounds outside to look at his face. He had to do a double take. </p><p>It was not a face he would've been able to imagine on his own had he been given a hundred years to do so. The boy’s cheekbones stood out like weapons, his eyes hard and dark as iron. Will blinked. </p><p>The other boy’s thin lips lifted at one side. “Ah, there we are. My name is Hannibal.”</p><p>Will wanted so badly to break their eye contact, but found himself unable to do so. He was a mouse a second away from being caught in a trap; as soon as he looked away, the lever would spring shut. Still, he couldn’t have been gladder to be sitting inside that car. Will wondered at the possibility of hypnosis. How else would he feel this calm in a situation so bizarre? </p><p>“And you are?” Hannibal pressed. </p><p>Will took a second to remind himself how to pronounce his own name. Once the skill had returned to him, he introduced himself. </p><p>Hannibal listened, then nodded and let his gaze turn towards the dashboard as he began preparing the car to drive again. Without the eye contact, Will’s brain took to functioning once more. He shook his hands out, returning the blood flow, and clicked his seat belt in; there were a million things he wanted to ask, and yet, his tongue stayed stuck to the top of his mouth. In the end it was Hannibal who broke the silence once more, initiating the conversation as they descended the hill. </p><p>“I suppose we will be driving a fair ways, as you haven’t yet offered directions.”</p><p>“Oh, um... My dad’s house is three towns south, about half a day’s drive. Is that—I guess I should have told you that.” </p><p>“Please inform me when I need to turn off of the highway.” After that, Hannibal drove them down the hill in a silence so thick Will nearly suffocated. He wanted to crack his window open. Hannibal’s eyes flicked back and forth between Will and the road ahead, nearly too fast to notice. The attention left Will exposed, as if his silence in Hannibal’s possession said more than his words ever could. In some ways he enjoyed it, the unspoken interrogation. He’d never been good at expressing himself; it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if Hannibal could understand him.</p><p>Hannibal was humming something under his breath, a song Will faintly recognized but was sure he hadn’t ever heard on the radio. It sounded like classical music, a piece to be played on a piano. Will listened to the soft notes and squirmed under the silent questioning and tried to force his eyes to pay attention to the view from the window instead of staring blankly into space. Hannibal maneuvered the potholes in a way Will had never been able to, and the ride gained a dreamy state as the car slid gracefully over the road. Each rain drop that fell was wiped away immediately by the smooth back and forth of the windshield wipers.</p><p>When it got dark enough, Hannibal turned on his headlights, throwing new shadows around them. Will saw deep green branches blowing in the wind and tangling together so that he couldn’t tell where one stopped and the next began. The whole way, not a single building sprouted from between the trees; all that existed was the forest, the road, and the horizon ahead of them, glowing yellow at the bottom where the lights from the next town finally fought into existence. </p><p>Will couldn’t escape taking this drive at least twice a year, going to and returning from school. He avoided it as much as possible, reluctantly visiting his dad only when absolutely necessary. Or, apparently, when it worked as a good excuse to spend some time away from his maybe-girlfriend. He found the drive terribly lonely, condemned with large stretches of wilderness that played at his mind. Not another person in sight. You could go crazy like that, moving down the road as a ghost, not knowing if it was morning or night. He often had to take an hour or two on either end to prepare himself, or to recover. To come back to himself. He shuddered to think how he’d be if he ever got lost out here. </p><p>Being in the car with someone else helped. He wouldn’t have expected it to, but it did. Darkness played between the trees and loneliness pushed up against the car windows, yet he didn’t feel scared, as if Hannibal was his anchor to the real world. Will found himself leaning in towards Hannibal, seeking comfort in proximity. The immediate reliance on this near-stranger gave him a whole new reason to be concerned. </p><p>As it turned out, Hannibal’s continuous humming and grounding effect could only stand against the pull of the wild for so long. Will noticed it first as just a trick of the light, a flash against the trees like the non-existent sunlight glinting off of the car’s side mirror. Will braced forward onto the dashboard, eyes strained out the front window. The light, he realized, had come from the whites of the creature’s eyes. It stood on four legs in the center of the road, chest heaving with breath. The creature took up as much space as a horse, but its head gave way to towering, twisting shapes which Will could only describe as antlers. The edges of its form wavered as if it were feathered, or coated in something translucent. </p><p>Hannibal was about to run the car right into it. </p><p>“Stop!” Will cried. He scrambled over towards the steering wheel and turned it out of Hannibal’s hands, forcing the car into the other lane. They missed the beast by mere inches, the car’s wheels squealing underneath them. Will sat back in his seat with a whimper as Hannibal quickly took the car back into the correct lane. Will pressed his palms to his eyes. </p><p>“What did you see, Will?” Hannibal’s voice, jarringly calm. </p><p>“I don’t know. Nothing.” Will had become accustomed to lying. </p><p>“Tell me what you saw.” Hannibal’s voice pried him open so gently that Will hardly even noticed as he explained the vision. Once he’d finished, he watched Hannibal rub his thumbs idly back and forth on the steering wheel. His expression remained impossible to read. </p><p>“It’s weird. I know it’s weird.” Will said. </p><p>“And what do you see now?”</p><p>“The road. And the trees. Nothing else like that.” </p><p>“We spend our young lives being told fairy tales and believing them, and our adult lives trying to see through the lies and teach ourselves what’s real. In some ways, it’s a blessing that you get to continue living this way.” </p><p>Will shook his head, but didn’t reply. He tugged his hood down to cover his eyes, and remained like that until the car stopped moving underneath them. There was no way they’d been driving for long enough to have reached his dad’s house. Will dropped his hood and ducked his head to look out the window. Hannibal had parked outside of a Seven-Eleven. </p><p>Hannibal appeared to be waiting for Will’s reaction, and when Will turned to look at him, simply explained, “We left campus before dinner.”</p><p>Will rolled his neck and shook out his hands, asking his body to please regain motion. The air was tangibly wet when he opened the door, but for the moment it had stopped raining. After a shaky step to get out of the car, he reached to swing the door closed and noticed that Hannibal hadn’t moved.</p><p> “Are you coming?”  </p><p>“Go inside, I will join you in a minute. I must first obtain something from my bag.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><p>Will disappeared into the corner store, a bell dinging over his head as the door closed behind him. Hannibal waited until Will’s shadow had disappeared entirely from the glass-pane. Once he was certain Will would be occupied inside the store, Hannibal came around to the front of his car and popped the hood. Will’s hallucination had been something of a spectacle to watch, how he’d fallen so fully into it, caught outside of reality. Like a piece of art, Hannibal had seen pain, reflected through beauty. Will’s beautiful suffering.</p><p>Hannibal rolled his shirt sleeves up to the elbows and bent over the engine. If he let Will return home now, he’d lose the ability to see him in his most vulnerable state, alone, no immediate necessary tasks to occupy his mind. It would be much harder to get an accurate read of Will’s position if he was surrounded by familiar things. Hannibal got his hand onto the fuse panel and clicked open the cover. Bar the possibility that Will had sufficient knowledge with the mechanics of a car engine, he’d most likely assume that the battery had died. Hannibal pulled the power fuse, closed the cover and dropped the hood. He rolled his sleeves back down, shook his hair back over his forehead, and entered the store. </p><p>The smell of cheap, overcooked hot dogs assaulted his nose so terribly that he had to force himself not to turn right back around. He should have been more cautious of the store's brightly coloured logo. Hannibal found Will at the back corner of the shop, a bag of chips tucked under his elbow and his eyes flitting over the fridge of soft drinks. The hash fluorescents illuminated the circles under his eyes as if they were bruises. </p><p>Will smelled of drug store shampoo, slightly of sweat, and something else underneath that, something hot and dizzying. Hannibal leaned closer, intrigued. Will caught him in the act, startled, and nearly hit his face into the glass door of the fridge. </p><p>“Jeez, Hannibal, when’d you get here?” </p><p>Hannibal stepped beside Will to join him in a survey of the soft drinks for sale. “Nothing here is even in the realm of real food.” </p><p>“I’m not sure what you were expecting to find on the side of a highway in the middle of nowhere.” </p><p>“I don’t suppose they have another room where they keep their wine.” </p><p>“No. You drink wine?”</p><p>Hannibal clasped his hands behind his back. “Yes, don’t you?” </p><p>“It tastes like spoiled grapes.” </p><p>“It admittedly is an acquired taste.” </p><p>Will opened the fridge and withdrew two clear bottles. “I’m sure you can make due with good-old plain water. We still have a ways to drive—are you getting anything to eat?” </p><p>Hannibal would have rather starved than eaten a single thing from the store. He shook his head once, and tried not to let the disdain show on his face. </p><p>“Suit yourself.” Will ended up purchasing twenty dollars worth of food, which he ate standing outside of the store. Hannibal worried he would pass out from forgetting to breath between bites. </p><p>Once he’d finished and stuffed the wrappers into the garbage bin at the edge of the parking lot, Will joined Hannibal inside the car. He tossed Hannibal one of the water bottles, keeping his own tucked beside him on the chair. Hannibal waited for Will to get settled and put his seat belt on before he turned the key in the ignition. He waited a moment, then tried to turn it again. </p><p>“What’s the matter?” Will leaned towards him. Hannibal could smell it again, that summer-heat wafting off of him. He cautioned a look at Will’s face, but needn't have worried for being caught as Will was busy reading the dials on his dashboard. Will flicked Hannibal’s hand off of the key and tried turning it himself. The car remained unresponsive. </p><p>“Has this happened before?” </p><p>“No.” Hannibal frowned, shook the stick shift unnecessarily. </p><p>Will stared motionless at the dashboard, as if he could start the car by force of will alone. Hannibal watched the muscles on his face move minutely as his brain worked for a solution. </p><p>After a few moments, Will jumped out of the car in a determined huff. “I’ll just be a second,” he called over his shoulder. </p><p>Hannibal leaned back in his seat and ensured that the hood was released so that Will could open it. Will made a fine display as he stood in front of the car, one hand wound into his hair, the other braced on the side of the opening. His face betrayed his disappointment as he rounded back around and took his seat inside. </p><p>“I only rudimentarily know about car engines, but I couldn’t find anything wrong. Maybe your battery? Although I don’t know how it would have died this fast.” </p><p>“The consensus?” </p><p>“This car won’t be getting us anywhere tonight.” </p><p>Hannibal tapped his fingers together, his wrists rested on the steering wheel. They wouldn’t be able to do anything worthwhile trapped inside the car, either. Will needed something to push him, to let him see the side of himself that hid in the shadows. </p><p>Hannibal had done a large amount of digging around in Rowall’s history before agreeing to the transfer. He’d found, among other things, a series of students who'd snuck away from the school to camp out in a presumed-abandoned house. It had been back in the days of the university when female and male students had been kept in separate dorms, and students had fled to the house as means of spending the night with members of the opposite gender. It had ended in a bloody tragedy as the owner of the house, upon returning home to find teens hooking up on his own bed, had killed them all. The history had been buried in the school’s past, turned into more of a ghost story than anything to be taken as fact. Hannibal presumed more truth in the matter than the university would admit. </p><p>“I apologize for the hindrance in your return home. Although it is not ideal, I believe I can offer a shelter for the night,” Hannibal said, face turned away from Will. One of his hands drifted up to scratch near his mouth. “My family owns a small house not far from here which is kept empty most times. It would not be too far to walk, and in the morning we could find alternative means of travel.” </p><p>Will undid his seat belt, moved his hand to hover over the handle. Less reluctant than Hannibal had expected. “Yeah. Okay. Lead the way.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>More quotes from the TV show? I think yes. I'd love to hear your thoughts so far!</p><p>See you on Sunday for chapter 4!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Mistakes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Will's body and brain on fire.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>1.4</b>
  </p>
</div><p>Night fell completely around them as Will and Hannibal trekked up the side of the highway. Will followed close behind Hannibal, using the light of his phone to keep an eye on the puddles and the dips in the concrete. Each car that whizzed past them sent a shiver through Will’s thin hoodie until his teeth started chattering. He could only hope that the rain would hold up until they managed to get inside. </p><p>Will’s head hadn’t stopped spinning since the near miss with the beast on the highway. He kept pinching his fingers, testing to see what was real. The food from Seven-Eleven had helped briefly, but the never-ending stretch of forested highway Hannibal led them down made it hard for Will to separate the inside of his mind from the out. He let Hannibal act as his tether to reality, immediately stepping behind him as they took a sharp turn. </p><p>Will didn’t notice the driveway until they were standing at the mouth of it. They followed the curving gravel in continued silence, Will knowing where Hannibal was more by the crunch of his shoes than by sight. He tried to see what lay ahead, and was surrounded by only darkness, and more darkness, then a wash of lights. Will paused to take in the sight, like a miracle cutting through despair.</p><p>“Who’s inside the house?” He caught up to Hannibal with two jumpy steps. Hannibal stopped to brace Will as he miscalculated and nearly slipped on the gravel. Once they were both steady, Hannibal looked to him to answer. All Will could see of him was an outline against the light behind him, and the whites of his eyes. </p><p>“The house is empty. The lights are kept on to dissuade burglars.” </p><p>“Oh.” Will leaned to the side to look past Hannibal. With his eyes still adjusted to the dark, all he could make out was an overwhelming glow, like a massive fire. He breathed in, half expecting the smell of smoke. The only thing in the air remained the damp oncoming of rain. </p><p>Hannibal could smell it too. Keeping his hand loosely on Will’s upper arm as if to guide him, Hannibal led them quickly up to the house. With each step they took closer, the building appeared to stretch and grow until finally it encompassed the whole space in front of them. Four wide, white pillars stood guard before the front door, holding up a triangular roof which jutted like a spear into the night sky. </p><p>Their steps echoed as they made their way up three stairs and across the slick porch. Hannibal paused once they reached the door; he dropped his hand from Will and reached up to brush his fingers over the top edge of the doorway. Finding nothing, he bent to feel around the cracks in the wood slats. </p><p>“I can’t seem to remember exactly where the spare key is hidden. It may be in one of the flowerpots back by the stairs. Won’t you go check?” </p><p>Will put a palm against one of the floor to ceiling windows and peered in. An open floored living room with a myriad of white furniture glared back at him, all perfectly lit up by a low-hanging chandelier. He imagined ghosts sitting on the couches and loveseats, dressed in fine suits and sipping from diamond glassware. There was no way people like this just left a key kicking around outside for anyone to find. </p><p>Still, he retraced his steps back down the stairs and begrudgingly stuck a shaky hand inside of each wide-mouthed clay pot. He didn’t bother to take his phone out for a flashlight: if the key was in one of the empty, dusty pots, he’d feel it. He supposed after that a snake or worse could have been hiding equally inside. </p><p>A drop of rain, cool and startling, hit the back of Will’s neck as he straightened up from the last of the plant pots. He frowned, lifted his hood on, and hurried to rejoin Hannibal undercover. </p><p>“Nothing there,” Will said, rubbing his hands together in a sad attempt to generate warmth. No one replied. “Hannibal?” He wasn’t standing near the door. A lap around the porch and a look around each side of the house revealed that he wasn’t anywhere close by. Will called his name again. His heart jumped inside his chest. </p><p>He’d hallucinated people before. Not often, but he had. The hallucinations had never lasted more than a few minutes. Hannibal was real—they’d had conversations and ridden in Hannibal’s car, a real, tangible car. Hannibal was real. He would be here somewhere. Will called his name once more, voice cracking with the effort. “Hannibal!” </p><p>Will stood outside the door, telling himself not to worry. Will stood outside of the door and worried. The light from the house grew dimmer and dimmer the longer he stood frozen on the porch, until the thick darkness of the forest began to close in around him. He rubbed his hands against his thighs, <i>feel this, this is real,</i> and pressed his feet into the ground. The wooden porch creaked with the weight. Sitting down against the wall allowed the cold of the wood to seep through his pant legs, grounding him. He put his palms to the floor as well. Hannibal was real. The ground below him was real. He just had to wait. </p><p>The lock clicking from inside the house startled Will’s eyes open. Hannibal’s polished shoes stepped in front of him, one toe tapping impatiently. </p><p>“Were you hallucinating again?” </p><p>Will pushed off of the ground and unfurled his body until he was standing. He hoped Hannibal didn’t notice the heat rising to his cheeks. “Thought I might be. Actually, I thought you—” He wiped his palms against the sides of his legs. “Never mind. It’s cold; I want to go inside.”  He stepped around Hannibal and let himself in through the ajar door. Faced with the entryway, he second-guessed his decision. He might prefer to freeze outside. </p><p>He distantly heard Hannibal enter behind him and close and re-lock the door. It took most of Will’s brain power to process the decor of the house. From one point of view, it could have been a feature in any style magazine: simple matching furniture laid out over lush rugs and brightened with pillows and throw blankets. What appeared to be a sharp amalgamation of shapes stood up on a coffee table. Will was sure it was some modern art much too fancy to make any sense to him. </p><p>The rest of what he could see, tacked up on walls and laid out across counters, told a much different story. A gun hung over the fireplace. A section of the far wall had strips of paint missing, as if someone had tried to claw their way out. He nearly tripped over a plastic bin, which, when he looked down, he found full of at least twenty hunting knives. They made a sickening clatter as the bin settled. </p><p>“What is this place?” </p><p>Hannibal had been looking around too, expression mirroring what Will felt. He extinguished spark from his eyes when he noticed Will’s gaze. “My family who lives here, we aren’t close. I haven’t spoken to them in some years.”  He clasped his hands against his back and ran his gaze up the staircase. “Are you tired?”</p><p>Will’s whole body ached with exhaustion—the panic on the porch outside had taken the last of his energy from him—and yet he didn’t see the possibility of much sleep. The atmosphere of the house spoke too strongly of fear and discomfort for him to relax. “No.” </p><p>“Good. Me neither.”  Hannibal stepped one foot onto the staircase, then seemingly thinking better of it, started instead towards the center of the living room. He sat on one of the couches, moving a lemon-yellow pillow to the side. His eyes bore into Will, pulling him forward as if he’d caught him with a fishing rod, hook piercing through Will’s cheek. </p><p>Will sat to the far left of Hannibal, learning heavily onto the arm of the couch. He found another one of the floofy pillows—gem-tone blue, soft to the touch like bunny fur—and pulled it onto his lap. The cold from outside hadn’t yet left him. </p><p>The wall behind them, Will remembered, had been centered with a grand brick panel and a raised hearth. “Could we start a fire?” He turned to look over the back of the couch; the fireplace glinted with a layer of soot and dust, heavy iron pokers resting off to the side. The metal rack meant to hold firewood stood empty. “Does your family have a shed or something where they keep wood?” </p><p>Hannibal turned, facing the fireplace as well, his jaw set. After a moment, he moved with purpose towards a crease in the wall. He ghosted his fingers along the groove until he’d nearly traced a square, finally pulling his hand back and with it a section of the wall. It wasn’t the wall, Will realized once Hannibal had taken a step back, it was a door, coloured and flattened to blend in with the wall. </p><p>The small door, no taller than Hannibal’s knees, led to a wood box built into the side of the house. Will slid off of the couch and moved closer, wrapping his arms around himself as the cold from outside seeped in through the little opening. The space was full of wood, chopped and dry, kindling and newspaper put to one side. </p><p>Will wanted to smile. Starting a fire, that was something he knew. He shook his arms out and pushed his sleeves back, hoping to find within himself enough energy. He stepped past Hannibal and took an armload of wood from the wood box, kicking it closed as he left towards the fireplace. He heard Hannibal close it properly and secure it with what sounded like a latch. </p><p>The firewood fell to the floor with a thump. A semicircle of the floor was dark tile around the fireplace, so Will didn’t have to worry about scuffing up hardwood or ruining a fancy rug. He used a broom and an iron dustpan from their stand and cleaned out the bottom of the firebox. He could sense Hannibal watching him, standing close enough behind him that Will could feel his pull. He didn’t want Hannibal to help.</p><p>Using his hands, having a clear goal and task to accomplish, Will’s head would begin to clear. The fright and unease would draw slowly away, releasing its suffocating hold on him. He hadn’t taken a full breath since the hallucination on the highway. </p><p>Once everything was in order, and he’d spotted a box of lighters atop the mantel, Will dropped to his knees in front of the fireplace. His movements came at a delay, tired and numb from the cold.  He layered the bottom with torn up paper, crinkling it into balls in his hands. He built it up as his father had taught him for bonfires more so than what he normally did in their wood stove at home, which didn’t have even half the size of this fireplace. </p><p>The chimney warmed up slowly, threatening to keep the flames pushed down, but with a bit of prodding and rearranging Will got the fire roaring. In his pride and amazement, he strayed a bit too close to the heat. He’d wanted to let the warmth consume him. He saw more than felt it as a thrown flame licked up against his wrist, hand grounded on the hearth as he’d leaned in. </p><p>Firm hands around his shoulders pulled him back. Will opened his mouth as if to scream, but made no noise. </p><p>Hannibal guided him towards the couch before Will even had a chance to fully realize what was happening. He moved Will onto his back, head resting against the plush arm of the couch. </p><p>“Fuck,” Will mumbled. He squirmed to check out the extent of the burn, but Hannibal had a hand on his chest, keeping him still. He’d obtained water in a glass pitcher, seemingly manifested it from this air, and pulled Will’s arm over the side of the couch. The water washed over his arm as a stream of relief, dripping over the burn, running down to his fingers and landing in a seeping mess on the rug. Neither of them cared. </p><p>“Unfortunately that’s all I can do for the moment. Tomorrow I can purchase some cream to aid in the healing process. The burn is only first-degree, but it is larger than I’d like.” </p><p>“Didn’t know you were a doctor.” Will’s words slurred. His heart beat slowly, his lungs only half-inhaling before expelling the air again. His vision of Hannibal’s form over him blurred until all he could make out was the blocky white of his coat, the white-blond halo of hair. He pursed his lips, trying to breath. The air rushed towards him with sudden excitement.</p><p>“Are you with me, Will?” </p><p>Will started to laugh. He pushed Hannibal off of him, sitting up on the couch and throwing his head back and laughing more. Nothing was funny. He knew nothing was funny, and yet, he couldn’t stop laughing. “My arm hurts.” </p><p>“You are experiencing symptoms of shock. I’m going to lay you back down again.” </p><p>Will’s body slipped out from under him. He braced, expecting the arm of the couch to knock against his head. He was instead lowered down slowly, the back of his skull supported until it reached not the arm of the couch but the cushion itself. Hannibal’s hands grasped around his ankles and lifted his feet up onto the arm at the other side. Strange way to go to sleep. While it wasn’t exactly comfortable, Will’s body sank heavily into the couch, begging for rest. </p><p>Despite the knives in the other room, the aura of misery hanging over the house, seeping into his skin, Will’s body pulled him into unconsciousness. He noticed, at the edge of his senses, something warm and firm moving to sit next to him, fingers running through his hair and spreading to encompass his skull. Wrapping around his wrist, pressing to his throat: his pulse points. Leaning in close to his neck, warm breath on his skin. He felt for the warmth, and finding it unrelenting, slept.</p><p>He awoke before dawn while the cracks and pops of the fire still sang through the room. Already, his memory of the night before was disappearing; he knew he’d started the fire, but he didn’t remember how he’d gotten to the couch, or why Hannibal was asleep with his head on his arms against the couch cushion, the rest of his body reaching up from the floor. Will lifted his hands to rub his eyes and was caught by a pang of heat from his wrist. Right—another part of last night he’d conveniently forgotten. </p><p>A rustle from outside of the room caught Will’s attention. His mind, a swirl of half-images from the night before, froze. He listened. The rustle was followed by a series of bangs, like someone in heavy boots walking on hard ground. Someone else was inside the house. </p><p>“Hannibal,” Will whispered. He shook his shoulder, receiving no response. Will stepped away from the couch. He leaned around the doorway, squinting into the darkness. The bin of hunting knives had been knocked over, the knives glinting orange firelight. Past them, the room could have contained any number of terrible things, all hidden by the dark. One last glance back at Hannibal revealed him to still be asleep, although Will could have sworn the position of his head in his arms had shifted just slightly. </p><p>Will stepped over the threshold, pausing by the stream of hunting knives to bring one into his hand. It hung heavy and dangerous in a stiff arm beside his leg as he crept towards the source of the sounds. The knife made him feel braver than he would have expected; he was no stranger to the weapon. A glint of white light hit the back wall of the kitchen, and Will traced its path to find the intruder.  </p><p>The man in the kitchen had shoulders as wide as a bull. His face in the low light was featureless, blank and menacing. He could not have been entirely human. He sized Will up, his presence in the kitchen overwhelming the whole space. The hunting knife in Will’s hand twitched with apprehension. For one second, all was still. </p><p>Heavy footsteps charged towards Will, and he shut his eyes, back flush with the wall. He prepared himself for some sort of pain, a punch, or maybe a wound from some weapon in the creature’s hands that he hadn’t noticed. Nothing came. Will let out a shaky breath, and opened his eyes one at a time. He’d scratched his thigh with the tip of the hunting knife in his panic; the small sting momentarily cleared his vision, and Will saw a flash of a human face on the creature, a wrinkled face of an aging person. He blinked and the monster had reappeared. Antlers grew from his skull. </p><p>In a flash of motion, the human-shaped monster moved to the upturned box of knives. He bent over the collection, selecting two and weighing them in his hands. The hands had six fingers each. Will couldn’t imagine why he had been spared, but in his mind’s eye he saw the scene as it might play out: Hannibal asleep, spotted by this creature, found out to have broken in. Unable to defend himself. Stabbed through the heart with the creature’s terrible antlers. </p><p>Will tightened his grasp on the knife and took the element of surprise while he could get it. His heart beat fast in his chest and the pulse shook his whole body. He was powered by desire, desire for what he didn’t know.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><p>Hannibal rounded the kitchen after he’d heard the front door slam closed. He flicked the lights on, blinking as his eyes adjusted. Will had done quite a number on the white counters and cabinet doors. They’d never be able to get all of the blood out.</p><p>“Good morning, Mr.Carsons.” The man sat slumped against the closed dishwasher, hands holding pressure on his cut. Just a few inches to the left, and Will would’ve allowed this poor man a much quicker death. Hannibal crouched down, paying attention to keep his shoes away from the streaks of blood. It would never properly come out of the leather, either. </p><p>“How did it feel, Mr.Carsons, killing those students all those years ago?” </p><p>Mr.Carsons withdrew a shaky breath, lips parting. Hannibal tipped his head to the side, daring the man to meet his eyes. Mr.Carsons closed his mouth once more.</p><p>“If one considers all crimes to be equal, then they would have to say you’ve done nothing wrong. Your house was broken into, and you found a solution. Cause, reaction.” Hannibal withdrew a shining blade from his breast pocket. It wasn’t one of the cumbersome, raucous hunting knives picked from the bin in the hallway, although he’d tucked a couple of those into his belt for future use. </p><p>This knife he used now, it was thin enough to make art.   </p><p>“Unfortunately, Mr.Carsons, I do not consider your crimes to be equal.” </p><p>The man died slowly, screaming. He complained. He really shouldn’t have. Hannibal locked the front door from the inside and left through a window out the back of the house, as he’d arrived. With both feet against the mushy, wet grass, Hannibal closed his eyes. If he was Will, on the run from his own mind, where would he go?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Riptides</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Will is found and then lost. There is a surprise motorcycle. </p><p>Content Warning (SPOILERS):<br/>Near drowning experience</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p><b>1.5</b>
  </p>
</div><p>Hannibal folded his pants up once from the bottom to keep them from getting tangled in the brambles, and started into the forest. The black-dark of night slowly gave in to the deep blue of early morning through the uniform walls of flora surrounding him. Occasionally, a moving tree branch or fern broke through. As they blew in the wind, they became akin to something animal, something hidden and watching. Hannibal wasn’t a stranger to walking alone through the forest. He wasn’t a stranger, either, to hiding and watching. More animal than man. </p><p>If one was to let their instincts run them, Hannibal supposed, what other real difference was there between human and beast? He’d let his instincts win last night, given in and watched Will fall asleep. Will’s breathing had been so erratic at first, shaking his chest with each sharp breath. As he’d calmed, his breathing had slowed and evened. Lit from behind by the dancing firelight, Hannibal had imagined him shirtless, and had been able to picture it. He’d traced his fingers over Will’s pulse and had imagined it stopping; he’d imagined Will’s jutting ribs and his heart hidden underneath, wrapped between his lungs. How careful he’d be, while removing them. How soft and precise with his fingers and the blade.  </p><p>Hannibal followed the babbling of quick water over rocks, stepping lightly to ensure he kept his footing. This deep into the forest, he was navigating around fir trees wider than he was tall. Birds awakened with the sunrise and stretched their wings from their perches, chattering into the wind. The purr off the stream he’d been listening for disappeared beneath the louder sounds of the forest, so Hannibal hiked deeper towards the water. He stepped over a row of ferns, and nearly slipped down into a ravine. The water rushing below him turned out to be a much wider, deeper current than he’d imagined, and the noise had only been so subdued as the water ran at least twenty feet down from him. Hannibal inched backwards and continued following the river deeper into the forest. He pictured Will doing the same.  </p><p>It only took another few minutes of tracing the river for Hannibal to find Will. He sat at the edge of the ravine, legs dangling over the edge. He held his hands in front of him, frowning wide-eyed at the blood on his palms. Hannibal stepped lightly behind Will, and looking down at him could see the tangle of his curls from where Hannibal’s fingers had brushed them the wrong way last night while watching Will fall asleep. The sight sent a bite of pride and something else, similar but more forceful, through him. </p><p>“Hello, Will.”</p><p>Will startled and nearly fell forwards off the edge. He turned, dropping his hands to the mossy ground. His expression softened as his eyes met Hannibal’s. “That was a man, wasn’t it?” </p><p>Hallucinating during the attack? “Yes. You killed him,” Hannibal lied.</p><p>Will’s face fell. “I lost the knife. Dropped it in the forest. It’s probably hidden underneath pine needles and wild blackberries now.” He balled his hands into firsts, and released them. “They’re going to find it, the police. And take my fingerprints. They’ll send me to jail.” </p><p>Hannibal imagined pushing a curl of Will’s hair behind his ear and felt the rush again. He imagined sinking his fingers into Will's hair and pulling it to tilt Will's head back. He said, “I won’t let that happen. Consider everything taken care of.” </p><p>Will’s eyes shone clear as glass. “How are you so calm about this? A man is dead. I’m—” He dropped his face into his hands. “Stories. On the news, of crazy people who would murder entire families, or kill strangers in creepy basements.” He pulled his hands from his face to motion with them, cupping them together against his knees. His eyes remained closed. “I knew them. I knew why they committed their crimes. Like somehow they existed inside my head.” </p><p>“You’ve imagined this before.” </p><p>“Killing someone, yes. When I hear about the crimes, it’s me in my head. I feel what they felt. I understand and share their motives. I take their actions. I never—” he winced, “I never wanted to hurt anyone.” </p><p>Will's pure empathy allowed him to feel the darker urges and emotions he would never otherwise imagine. It could corrupt him.  Hannibal could help it to corrupt him.</p><p>“You see them, these killers. It’s only reasonable that you would one day join them.” </p><p>“No. No.” Will rocked to the side. The grey sky visible over the ravine flooded the space with pale light and drove all the colour from his face. “I’m not like them.” </p><p>“I understand—”</p><p>Will cut Hannibal off. “I need to talk to Alana. She’ll be surprised, but she’ll listen to me. She’ll try to understand.”</p><p>Hannibal knew Alana, at least enough to picture her face. She had a powerful presence that could shut mouths just by walking through a door. She had a way of knowing things, as well. Hannibal kept a wide berth. The thought of her with Will together dried his mouth. “You and Alana—?” </p><p>“I don’t know. But she’s the only one who can save me from this.” </p><p>Will didn’t need to be saved from anything, and if he did, Alana wouldn't be the one to do it. Hannibal would show him a savior. </p><p>With Will’s eyes still braced shut, body teetering at the drop-off, it was too easy. Hannibal leaned over him and hit the back of Will’s head with his palm, only hard enough so that he’d black out for a few seconds. Gravity did the rest for him, Will’s back arching as he fell backwards, landing a second later in the river below.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><p>Will spluttered, gasping for air and instead taking in a mouthful of icy water. He thrashed his arms, pushing helplessly through rough currents that threatened to drag him away. He didn’t know which way to swim to find the air. Every part of his body shivered, cold and filled with adrenaline. His lungs burned. He could only assume he’d fallen into the river, perhaps stumbled and fallen over backwards. Not that the technicalities mattered—his only point of focus now was finding the air.</p><p>When he’d been quite young, during one of his first ice fishing trips with his father, Will had fallen into the water. He’d been small enough to slip through the hole in the ice, and in a moment when his father was looking away, he’d gotten too curious and leant too far in. The water below had been so cold it felt warm. </p><p>Through the thick layer of ice, he’d been able to see shapes and colours, the world anew. Locked underwater, unable to breathe, Will hadn’t been scared. He’d lay still, and as his clothes had sopped up the water he’d drifted deeper and deeper into the lake. He remembered how he’d watched his hands flow through the space around him, gloves fallen off to let bare fingers shimmer. There had been no noise, below the ice. No pain, either. He’d blown bubbles to watch them float up. He’d let his body sink in the opposite direction without so much as a worry. His father had broken the ice to save him, thick hands pulling Will’s body back to the world of noise and colour and heat. </p><p>In the river, knees scraping against rocks and debris, Will looked through the water and found the same peace. He stopped thrashing. The browns and navy blues swirling around him lulled him, called him away from his body. His lungs lost their ache, his lips stopped screaming. He felt the soft brush of wet leaves brushing against him, and a tug as he was pulled into a riptide. He smiled as his vision darkened at the edges. The water around him made no sound. For a moment he was a child again, becoming one with the ice and the welcome calm and the winding schools of fish somewhere beneath him. All of their lives hanging in the balance.</p><p>He was ripped from the river violently, and dropped on his back on solid ground. A distinct pressure pounded against his chest, again and again, trying to kick-start his lungs. Will coughed and curled to the side, expelling enough water to fill a swimming pool. He registered, for the first time, Hannibal saying his name. Once he’d heard that sound, everything else came back with force; the crashing of the river and the chirping of the birds exploded around him. He coughed once more, throat raw. The pebbles below him bounced off of his wet skin and clicked against each other as Will was pulled to sitting. His face was brought up by firm fingers around his jaw. </p><p>Through squinted eyes weighed down by wet eyelashes, Will found Hannibal’s face hovering only inches from his own. Hannibal’s hand grasped firmly around Will’s chin, fingers wet with river water. Droplets from Will’s hair streamed his cheeks until he forgot they weren’t real tears. He couldn’t figure out why Hannibal’s hand wasn’t letting him move, or letting him open his mouth to speak or take a deep breath. There was hardly any space between them.</p><p>With Hannibal’s seeking eyes so close, Will saw himself in their reflection, sopping and powerless—just as Hannibal saw him. If Hannibal’s eyes could have spoken, they would have said: listen to me, look at me, know me. Only me. Just me. Hannibal held Will unmoving. Held him too tightly for either of them to move. They breathed as one, as Will’s lungs remembered how to do it, reacliamizing to the air. The seconds passed slowly, the clouds above shifting and allowing the sun to break through, spilling light into the dark river, over the dull stones. Golden rays illuminated Hannibal with the first colour Will had seen that day. Ashy and copper streaks stood out in Hannibal’s hair where it fell in straight lines over his forehead, and his irises brightened from black to a hungry brown. Will licked his lips and tasted the river water. Hannibal tracked the movement with unguarded interest. </p><p>“Ask me.” The river and the birds and the wind, all cut by Hannibal’s voice. </p><p>Will stared at him, breathed through his nose, waited. </p><p>“Ask me to save you.” Hannibal’s fingers tightened around Will’s jaw, lifted it how he wanted it. Leveled their eyes, then relaxed. </p><p>Will shivered as a gust of wind pinned his soaking shirt to his back. Hannibal looked right through him. “Save me, Hannibal.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><p>They returned back to the house because Will needed new clothes. Hannibal would have given Will his own, but he had only the one shirt and coat. The idea of sharing clothes, although impractical for the moment, heated Hannibal’s chest and would be revisited. He steered Will quickly up the stairs, avoiding the kitchen and the dead man still slumped over inside of it. He took the time while Will changed to clean their fingerprints off of the door handles and confuse the crime scene. Will wouldn’t be the only one in trouble if it did get traced back to them.</p><p>Will emerged from the hallway before Hannibal had been expecting, shoulders drooped in self-consciousness, dressed in a selection of the dead man’s clothes. </p><p>“Can we go now?” He said, eyes searching the wall to Hannibal’s side. He’d traded in his soaked hoodie and t-shirt for a long-sleeved button up that hung halfway to his knees and khakis about twenty years out of fashion. Hannibal folded the tissue that he’d been wiping the door handle with, and slipped it into his pocket as he brought himself close to Will. He unbuttoned the three lower buttons of Will’s shirt, tsking when Will tried to push his hands away. He tied the shirttails together just below the clasp of Will’s pants. </p><p>“This is how girls do it.” Will said, tugging at the bottom of the shirt once Hannibal had removed his hands. </p><p>“His shirt is too big for you. Now it fits. I see no reason to bring gender into it.” Hannibal turned to open the door, tissue back in hand. “It will also now be better suited for our ride back home.” </p><p>“Our what?” Hannibal let the motorcycle parked out front of the house, two helmets looped over the handlebars, speak for itself. His car would be returned to the school for him, and he’d taken the liberty to arrange for them a different means of return travel. Of course, Will would no longer be interested in visiting his father, not after what had happened last night. </p><p>“Hannibal. Why is there a motorbike out here?” </p><p>“Motorcycles are engine powered vehicles with two wheels, typically used to get from one place to another.” </p><p>Will glared at Hannibal for long enough to get his desperation across, then raced to the motorcycle like a kid in a candy shop. He traced his fingers over the fuel tank and over the seats, carefully light in his touch. “Where did this come from?” </p><p>“Does it matter?” </p><p>“Is it yours?” </p><p>“In a manner of speaking.” </p><p>“Whatever that means,” Will said, lifting both helmets in the air and looking pointedly at Hannibal. </p><p>“Left one is yours,” Hannibal said. He moved forward as Will put the helmet on his head. Will stumbled backwards when Hannibal stepped up close to him, jostling the bike. Hannibal reached around Will’s waist to steady it, and used his other hand to fasten the strap of Will’s helmet under his chin. Will coughed in his throat, looking away, tense. Hannibal retreated once he’d smelled enough of the dizzying heat. Hannibal still didn’t recognize the smell, and suspected that something wasn’t right with Will. He would have noticed the scent before, on someone else, had it been common. </p><p>“Have you ever driven a motorcycle before?” Hannibal asked.</p><p>“God, no.” </p><p>“Would you like to?” </p><p>At that, Will turned towards him. “No way.” He didn’t sound like he meant it. </p><p>With Will sitting in front, Hannibal would be able to watch him, study him. He’d have the whole ride back to the school to place Will’s peculiar scent, and to wait for Will’s next hallucination. If he had one, from behind him Hannibal would be able to see each stage of the hallucination, and commit it to memory. Commit it to study later. He’d have Will with him, trapped up against him, taking any turn he urged him to make. In his control.</p><p>“Come. I will ensure you know what to do. Of course, we will be together the whole time.” Hannibal held the motorcycle as Will threw his leg overtop. He stood beside Will and explained the ins and outs of the controls, Will’s eyes following his fingers intently. It wasn’t important for Will to know what he was doing—if he made a mistake or got lost, Hannibal would be able to control the bike from the back seat. The explanation was only for Will’s sake, to give him confidence. Hannibal doubted Will had ever started anything without thinking deeply through each aspect of it first. </p><p>Will asked a couple of questions, which Hannibal answered in few words. He cut Will off mid-sentence, and joined him on the motorcycle. Hannibal nudged Will’s foot away to access the shifter, and reached around Will to hold the clutch. He began to move his other hand towards the key in the ignition, but Will beat him to it, starting the motorcycle. Together they  urged in forwards down the twisting driveway, away from a dead man who had been killed by one boy who had enjoyed it and one boy who would learn to. </p><p>At first, Will took the bike slowly, shaky when he turned the handlebars. Hannibal shifted the gears for him, letting Will adjust to each new speed before bringing them to the next one. The sun rose higher behind them as they rode west. It was still early enough in the day for the highway to stay fairly empty, allowing for Will to keep the bike slower than the speed limit without accumulating a line of traffic behind them. Hannibal itched to move faster. </p><p>Hannibal’s foot hovered over Will’s on the gas pedal, speeding them up, and speeding them up more. Will’s fingers clenched around the handlebars, and Hannibal considered not for the first time, moving his own hands from their grasp on the rail at his sides to hold onto Will’s waist. He once more talked himself down. It couldn’t be predicted how Will would react to the contact, and Hannibal didn’t know if he’d be fast enough from that position to stop them from running off the road. </p><p>At the speed Hannibal had taken them to, the lines on the road blurred into the dark concrete, and the trees to their sides were nothing more than a wall of greens. The roar of the engine expanded around them like thunder. They were a dark horse on the highway, their bodies winding together with the hot metal of the motorcycle, turning them into a beast of power and fusion. Nothing could stop their flight. Hannibal wondered if Will’s dream creature could gallop so fast, or if Will would find in him a way to outrun it. </p><p>It was speeds like this that ordinarily allowed Hannibal to leave his mind behind, living in the rush of the moment. With Will in front of him, however, close enough to feel the pull of his presence, Hannibal couldn’t stop thinking. He regretted feigning sleep to get Will into the kitchen, and that he hadn’t been there to see him stab Carsons. Of course, there was always next time. Hannibal could ensure there would be a next time. </p><p>The road jarred to the side as Will tugged on the handlebars. He brought the bike over to the side of the road with such an unexpected motion that Hannibal put his leg out in a half-attempt to stop them from rolling over. He frantically forced the bike down into first gear as Will ground on the breaks, bringing them to a jarring halt. Will was off of the bike and sliding sure-footedly down into the ditch in half a second, helmet still securely on his head. </p><p>Hannibal killed the engine and pocketed the key, eyes on Will all the while. Will had descended half way into the ditch, bending down on the grassy bank and reaching one hand in front of him as if to coax something from in the shallow water. He wasn’t reacting as he had during the hallucinations; something about his posture, how he seemed relaxed, connected him too securely to the real world. </p><p>Hannibal called to him from the concrete.</p><p>“Sh!” Will’s call back, without turning his head and much quieter than Hannibal’s had been. “You’ll scare him away.” </p><p>Hannibal squinted, trying to see whatever Will must see hidden in the grass. He didn’t notice the dog until Will had it in his arms. The dog’s fur dripped muddy water down Will’s front, his large paws leaving muddy prints everywhere they touched. Hannibal recoiled. Will had nearly flipped the bike in his haste to get to a dog; Hannibal had a quick flashback to saving Will from the river, and questioned if he hadn't acted prematurely.</p><p>“What is that?” </p><p>Will cocked his head at Hannibal as he took the last couple of steps up to the road. The dog mirrored the motion with his own head. “This is Winston. He’s a bit dirty, but we can get him cleaned up.”  </p><p>Hannibal stared at Will until he was sure he wasn’t joking. “How exactly do you plan to clean ...Winston. Here?” </p><p>Now it was Will’s turn to take a long, calculating look. “I’m not going to clean him here.” </p><p>“I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me what you expect to happen right now?” </p><p>“Winston is coming back with us.” </p><p>Hannibal could have laughed at the absurdity. </p><p>He would have stopped laughing when the dog placed its muddy paws onto his shoulders soiling his coat. They had returned to the motorcycle, now with Hannibal in front. Will held tightly onto the dog sitting on his lap. Which is to mean, the dog sitting in between Hannibal and Will, preventing any studying Hannibal would have been able to do of Will, and getting mud on his coat. </p><p>Hannibal couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in so compromising a situation. Surely, he’d never once allowed anything so unpleasant to happen for the sake of anyone else. He hadn’t been expecting to let it happen for Will. Hannibal started the motorcycle, heard Will whispering sweet nothings to the dog, trying to keep him calm. The bike responded to his touch as it always had, but without its usual freedom. Hannibal kept going back to the moment he’d decided to let Will go through with this absurd plan. </p><p>He didn’t believe in love. Desperate people grouped together to help each other navigate the sad existence of life, and came up with a name for it. Love, the all-encompassing connection portrayed in books and spoken of in poems, didn’t exist other than as a pipedream for lonely people. As love didn’t exist, Hannibal was the master of his own fate. Nothing could ever come between him and what he wanted for himself. He felt nothing stronger than the desire to please himself. </p><p>But then Will Graham had asked to bring a dog home on a motorcycle, and Hannibal hadn’t been able to say no. </p><p>The rumble as Hannibal gunned the engine drowned out his circling thoughts, but it couldn’t cover the feeling of fear.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Do you think Hannibal would hurt Alana?<br/>Were you surprised when he pushed Will into the river? </p><p>Thoughts on either of these questions or anything else? Please comment! It would make the author... feel less like... she's screaming into the void    :0 :)  </p><p>Hope you have a nice day! Talk to you later!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Fantasies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Winston pays more attention than Will does. Hannibal indulges a fantasy.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>1.6</b>
  </p>
</div><p>Winston’s head bounced happily beside Will’s knees as he marched through the school grounds. Hannibal was off dealing with the motorbike and presumably sulking about the mud stains on his coat. Not that Will cared where Hannibal was.</p><p>“That guy wouldn’t even sit with you for two minutes while I grabbed my lunch, would he?” Will said as he patted Winston’s side. The dog must have been trained; he followed Will dutifully and had been more than content to sit and wait just outside the cafeteria while Will dipped in to get his food. Winston had enjoyed many pats from excited students as well, no love lost over Hannibal. Will had gotten through it. He didn’t think any students had ever talked to him that much in one day, let alone all at once. </p><p>Now, Will munched on a chicken-caesar wrap as he led Winston towards the forest. He’d grabbed a few baby carrots for Winston, and fed them to him one at a time. Will’s dad had never agreed to let them own a dog, but where they’d lived, strays were never in short supply. Ownership wasn’t what he wanted, anyways—Will looked to dogs for friendship. He’d used them as stress relief, throwing sticks for them to chase and letting them run along beside his bike until everyone was tired and panting. When the other kids didn’t want much to do with you, dogs were kind of all you had.</p><p>He didn’t know what to do with Winston. Dogs, strictly speaking, weren’t allowed on campus and definitely couldn’t stay in his dorm room. Maybe bringing him back had been a snap decision. Maybe he’d wanted to see what Hannibal would say. Will and Winston reached the edge of the field and kept going, falling in between the trees until Will couldn’t easily tell forward from backwards. An image of Hansel and Gretel flashed behind his eyes, and he considered dropping a lettuce leaf from his wrap as a bread-crumb trail. </p><p>The trees here were different from the forest he’d walked dizzy through that early morning. The university had a higher elevation, forcing the trees to fight to survive. The branches were shorter and stockier. Leafy plants grew up to the same height as Will’s waist, dotted with deep blue-purple berries that Will thought were edible. He didn’t trust himself enough to try one. It had been raining earlier; each time Will brushed past a branch, it left a wet mark on his clothes. Winston’s tail whipped against the back of his leg as Will paused to decide their best route. </p><p>Winston barked and Will clenched a hand in the fur of his back to steady him. He could sense the younger Will inside of him, grinning as he found a faded bouncy ball against the sidewalk—a gift for the dogs. He could buy a frisbee from Rowall’s bookstore tomorrow, and teach Winston how to catch. </p><p>“You could live here, yeah?” Will said. He scratched behind the dog’s ear. Winston didn’t appear to share the sentiment. A twig cracked somewhere in ahead of them, and Winston’s ears snapped back. He barked once more, tail wagging and snapping against Will, and then he was off. His legs took him fast as a bullet through the forest, disappearing into the undergrowth. Will could only see him in the shaking of the plants he ran through, and then he couldn’t see him at all. </p><p>“Winston!” Will called. He ran in the same direction, whistling and clicking his tongue as he went. “Come on.” A tree had fallen across the deer trail he’d been following, and Will jumped over it, easily clearing the log. He wasn’t ready for the brambles hidden on the other side, and his feet became tangled, tossing Will towards the ground. He landed badly on one ankle, and let himself drop the rest of the way onto his knees . He groaned, turning to assess the damage. </p><p>The brambles trapped his feet, wrapped around his ankles with thorns biting into his skin. His runners had never completely dried from his dip in the river. Now, he tugged them off to let his feet free from the brambles. Thorns cut easily through the cotton of his socks, prickling and pulling beads of blood through the white. One last tug freed him, and cut a long slip from his ankle to his toes. Will hissed through his lips, and tried to laugh at how papercut-sized injuries like this always hurt the most.</p><p>He fought his shoes out of the thorns with less caution, tugging them away from the plant with both hands. The first runner was easy to put back on. The second one, onto his injured foot, was slow going. He used one hand to support his leg at the ankle, the other one to hold the shoe, and each time he brushed against the scratch or turned his foot his nerves yelled bloody murder. It was with his eyes closed and his breath held that he finally got the shoe all the way on. He let the shoe tongue fall forward, tucking his laces into the sides instead of tying them.</p><p>Will stood, looking around for any sign of Winston. He’d taken too long on the ground, and Winston could be anywhere. He’d never find him now. Will stumbled forward, and grimaced at his ankle, tender under his weight. He’d managed to find one good thing for himself and he couldn’t even keep it for longer than half a day. The dog wouldn’t be able to scavenge and beg for food in the forest as he would have in the city—Will’s second murder was as good as done. </p><p>The forest stretched around him in all directions, the trees above him rubbing together in the wind and laughing at his misfortune. He tried once more to step forward, teetering on his injured leg. With a defeated moan, he sat on the fallen tree, scrubbing a hand down his face. Something was wrong with his ankle, and it wouldn’t be taking him back to the school grounds without a struggle. He could either fight through the pain and risk injuring it further, or suck it up and call someone for help. </p><p>It couldn’t be Hannibal. Hannibal had saved Will once already that day, and if Will told him he’d lost the dog Hannibal had let ride on his motorcycle, Will wasn’t sure Hannibal wouldn’t strike him down then and there. </p><p>Will tried standing once more. He got over the log, and by leaning against trees and hopping managed to get what he thought was a fair distance. Maybe he could make it back on his own. He shook out his shoulders, happy with what he’d managed so far, and looked back to see how far he’d gotten. The fallen tree judged him from less than three feet away. </p><p>With a final sigh, Will dialed a number into his phone. Alana picked up on the first ring.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>Hannibal’s foot slipped and a twig cracked in half. The sound grew as it vibrated into the forest. He froze, hoping for the moment to pass. He peered past the trees and could see that Will remained oblivious, assuming himself aone. The dog, however, sensed company. From his hiding place behind the thick leaves of a large bush, Hannibal heard Will chase after the fleeing dog and trip over something—heard him grumble and hiss. The dog ran up to Hannibal, tail wagging. Hannibal pet the dog’s face cautiously, and pushed his snout to the side. The dog couldn’t be with him. Will would find Hannibal if the dog was with him.<p>He stepped to the side when the dog tried to lean against his thighs. </p><p>“Why? I have nothing for you. I also do not particularly like you,” Hannibal whispered, low enough to be covered by the wind through the trees. He pushed the dog far enough away that it kept going, lost to the trees by the time Will looked around for it once more. Will fought to stand and, once he had, took a few tentative, uneven steps, his weight over just one leg; even with his back turned Hannibal could see the pained tension in his shoulders. </p><p>Will tried to start back towards the school and Hannibal crept out from the bush to follow him in secret, as he had from the moment they’d ‘parted’. Will’s ankle released droplets of blood, staining his sock and the bottom of his pants. He avoided putting pressure on that leg, moving slowly, pushing on. Hannibal’s hand opened and closed against his own thigh, itching to bandage Will’s leg. To touch his blood, and feel it against his fingers. To have it on his own skin. He kept a distance between them but wanted with each breath to move closer. </p><p>Hannibal rushed to hide behind a tree as Will turned around. Will spoke. He used a different voice now than he did to speak to Hannibal—a more calculated tone, and a more liberal use of the word ‘please’. While Will talked to someone else on the phone, Hannibal took the knife out of his breast pocket and shifted to stab it into the tree bark. He’d chosen a particularly gnarly tree to hide behind—its bark twisted and knotted into thick burls. </p><p>He drew lines into the tree, jagged lines or fine lines or looping scrawl—whatever he felt like in the moment. Somewhere beyond him, Will sat on the log with a crunch of dead leaves. Every few minutes, he called out for the dog. His calls got quieter and quieter as time passed. </p><p>“Will! Holy, you’re a far ways out.” It was Alana’s voice, and her body breaking through the trees. Hannibal stabbed the little knife into the tree with enough force to bury it entirely in the wood. He frowned and tried to pull it back out without snapping it. </p><p>“Did you bring crutches?” Will’s voice was muffled as if he was talking into his hand. </p><p>“Crutches won’t do you any good out here. I’ll help you get back, and we can go to the nurse together. You’ll want them to take a look at that—”</p><p>“Don’t touch it.” Harsh, like he’d pushed her away at the same time. </p><p>“Will.”</p><p>“Sorry. Long day. Sorry.”  Long day which had begun with quite an accomplishment for clever Will, although he didn’t seem in any rush to tell her about that. </p><p>There were some noises like scuffling on the soft ground, and Alana’s voice too low for Hannibal to hear. She asked a question, which Hannibal understood without all the words: Why are you here? Why are you in the forest with a bloody leg instead of helping your dad fix a boat?</p><p>Will didn’t reply vocally, but he must have shown  some emotion on his face, as Alana spoke again. </p><p>“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” </p><p>Hannibal looked around the side of the tree in time to see the back of Will’s head move as he nodded. He had his arm around Alana’s shoulder for her support. She stood half a head shorter than him. </p><p>She had her hand in his back pocket. </p><p>Hannibal scowled, finally ripping his knife from the tree only to force it right back in. The tree didn’t bleed. Hannibal needed something that would bleed. </p><p>If Will wouldn’t bend for him, he’d manufacture someone who would.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><p>
  <i>Pillars stand evenly throughout the room, decorative, shining with gold. They reflect down onto the floor as if the tile is the surface of a deep lake. The pillars are a solid gold sinking through red water, the starry sky of a ceiling not long to join them. Waltz music plays from a record player, cracking and hollow. The beat is slow, like a dying heartbeat. The only other sound is soft breathing. Hannibal plus one other person in the ballroom.</i>
</p><p>Outside of his head, Hannibal tucked his thinnest knife into his breast pocket, following it by one of the hunting knives. The bigger weapon wouldn’t be used to inflict pain, but he anticipated it to be quite useful for the earlier portion. He slid his fingers into white latex gloves, which immediately dried his skin. Perhaps one day he’d find an easier way to prevent fingerprints. </p><p>He bid goodnight to his loft and stepped out into the hallway, a shadow in the low evening light.</p><p>Charles had posted his class schedule onto the university’s Facebook page, which was quite simply a terrible thing to do, especially after getting yourself on the bad side of someone like Hannibal. It was nearly too easy to use Charles’s blunder to his own advantage. He knew exactly where his former TA would be, and when he’d be alone. </p><p>
  <i>In the ballroom, Hannibal follows a line of darker tiles in the floor, eyes cast downwards to regard his reflection. The red and burgundy tiles turn his eyes to those of a vampire, or a demon. He blinks and looks up, afraid that if he stairs any longer he’ll see a line of blood from his mouth, or horns growing from the sides of his head. Someone else’s breathing still echoes from a corner of the room Hannibal can’t find. He recognizes its rhythm, has the slightest smell of dizzying warmth slipping through his nose. </i>
</p><p>There was no warmth on the school grounds. The tips of Hannibal’s shoes splotched dark as they picked up the dew in the grass. He let himself in through the heavy door to the political science lecture hall, the hallway bustling with tired upperclassmen. Charles was ducked over the railing in the stairwell, yelling to a girl on the floor down. Hannibal let the tip of the hunting knife extend from beneath his coat sleeve, balancing it in the palm of his hand. Walking past Charles, he cut a thin slit into the bottom of his backpack—just enough to strain the fabric. </p><p>He concealed the knife once more as he strode away. Bodies walked past, crowding the growing distance between him and Charles. No one so much as batted an eye. Hannibal let himself out the door on the opposite side and crouched down against the wall to wait. </p><p><i>In the ballroom, he moves without pause. He completes a lap of the floor, steps slow and even. He stops back in front of the arched door, and directs his gaze inwards, surveying the extensive room. Moonlight shines in beams through skylights. Someone in an iron grey suit steps out from behind a pillar on the far side of the hall with his head bowed, dark hair falling to cover his eyes. Hannibal lifts a foot and lets it fall back to the ground, heel of his shoe creating a sound on the hard floor that rings through the room. The other looks up at the noise, meets his eye. They take from their opposite sides to meet at the center.</i> </p><p>Charles turned around the side of the building, oblivious to the world around him. He wore large headphones, squishing his hair down and around his face in odd angles. He was mouthing the lyrics to a song. Hannibal held his breath as Charles stepped past him, close enough that Hannibal could have grabbed his ankle. Hannibal kept his eyes glued to Charles’s backpack as he stood and began to follow Charles in stride. The slit in his backpack splintered and grew and finally gave up, tearing out the bottom of the bag and sending books and papers flying. Charles turned to see what had happened and in the confusion Hannibal grabbed his shoulders and brought him roughly against the wall. </p><p>
  <i>He lifts a hand to Will’s waist; the iron grey suit is made of a slippery material which slides like glass under Hannibal’s fingers. Will hesitates, his hand fluttering near Hannibal’s side, and Hannibal tightens his hold. In his possession, Will’s hand will go on his shoulder. Will’s steps will follow his.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I’ve got you,” Hannibal says. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Hannibal—” Will says. </i>
</p><p>
 “No one is here to see.” 
</p><p>Charles’s head beat back against the wall. “Get off me!”  </p><p>Hannibal’s pulse rocketed through his veins, and he fought his hands to stay still. His vision began to cloud red at the edges. All day he had longed for this, thought of it with a section of his mind, could never be rid of it. Even in the act, all Hannibal wanted was more. He craved more so badly he shook with desire. </p><p>He wound his hands around Charles’s neck and blocked his head against the wall once more, drawing a sharp gasp from his lips. Charles tried to fight back, feebly kneeing Hannibal’s thighs. Hannibal didn’t need to be finished so soon. He could allow Charles a moment to feel like he might escape. Hannibal set to putting his own back against the wall, spinning them both— </p><p>
  <i>—and catching Will as they switch direction. Will’s left foot steps in between his own as they turn and spin across the floor, weaving in and out of the pillars. Their footsteps are a rhythm section for the faint record music, like an orchestra in two parts. Will’s hand is smaller than Hannibal’s, and where they grasp together, Will’s is damp. Sweat. That hot, sickly scent is thick between them. </i>
</p><p>Charles gasped for breath, reeling in the absence of Hannibal’s hands on his neck. He panted, too desperate to try to speak, yet his eyes showed plainly his terror and confusion. Hannibal took it all in -- could have gotten high off of the emotion alone. Once enough oxygen had reached Charles’s brain to clear his thoughts, he tried to break away, pushing back with shaky legs. Hannibal caught him easily, grasping one hand behind his back. </p><p>
  <i>Will’s back arches beautifully as Hannibal dips him. They freeze in the pose, the music sustaining a single note, drawn out and vibrating. Will’s face directly under Hannibal’s is red in the cheeks and his eyes have rolled up into his head to expose just the whites. He shakes in Hannibal’s grasp. Hannibal nuzzles his nose into the crook of Will’s neck and inhales his scent; he knows it now as the scent of a brain swelling inside its skull. He holds Will until the seizure has ended, allowing his gaze to flicker over the ornate walls and high ceilings as he waits.</i>
</p><p>This side of the philosophy building, where Hannibal had Charles in his grasp, backed up against a thick section of trees. By this point, the daylight had entirely faded and the students had returned to their dorm rooms or study spaces, leaving the predator and his prey alone in the dark. Hannibal took the blood from Charles as it still beat inside of him, one hand pressing down over his mouth to muffle the screaming. Charles’s last breath drew through the air like a fractured hope. </p><p>
  <i>Will’s breath expands through his rib cage, filling Hannibal’s hand where it rests on his back. They’ve waltzed circles and circles of the expansive ballroom; in Will’s condition, it’s unbelievable he could do such a thing at all, although Hannibal doubts Will knows enough about his condition to put a limit on himself. If he keeps living as he is, Will won’t have long. Hannibal’s desire to see his experiment through battles with an unwelcome loss at the thought of losing Will. </i>
</p><p>With the vial tucked neatly back into a pocket, and the knives cleaned, Hannibal returns to his dorm. He isn’t worried for being caught as Charles will hardly be missed, and for the first time wonders if he, too, would fall easily from the scope of the world, unmourned and forgotten. It’s not, as he might have imagined, a comforting thought.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If you found that last part kind of confusing, yeah, so did I. It was fun to write, though (and I hope also kind of fun to read). Let's call it experimental. </p><p>Any thoughts or questions?</p><p>:) &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Crypts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Will and Hannibal descend into the depths of the old English Literature building.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>1.7</b>
  </p>
</div>Will tied boots onto his feet. They were his dad’s hunting boots, given to Will for the winter months of snow. He’d avoided wearing them. The bulky  boots were too noticeable, too loud. Now he tied the laces with shaking fingers, movements quick and sharp.<p>Will had always been good on his own. He’d learned each time his father hadn’t shown up that if he was going to rely on someone, he’d rely on himself. He’d find a way to sustain himself, unaided. The scholarship that paid for him to attend Rowall had been won through essays he’d written and shop competitions he’d won after teaching himself how to write, how to carve. Relying on someone just became too much of a gamble. </p><p>He sat on his bed for a couple of breaths once his boots were tied. He grazed his fingers against his own neck, pressing into the pulse-point. Yes, he was still alive. Alive and alone.  No one watched him as he left his room and locked the door. It was too late in the night for Chris to be gone, and yet both beds stood empty. Maybe the lack of company was part of what had convinced Will to leave. To leave with the plan that he had in mind. </p><p>Arriving at university had been Will’s last stab at finding someone to trust, and when he’d found Alana, his walls had started to crack. Alana showed up. Alana could be relied upon. She had her own agenda, and sometimes Will didn’t think he knew her at all. He knew only exactly as much of her as she wanted him to know, and in turn she knew only the pieces of him that he’d polished enough to drag from the shadows. Alana and him may have been two ghosts haunting each other, but in the anonymity there was safety. They had an unspoken agreement to be certain people when they were together, and in that understanding they had found trust and connection, even if superficial.  </p><p>He cleared the stairs two at a time, and tricked the door to let him outside. Students were meant to stay in their dorms all night, and the rule was enforced by locking the doors from both sides. They were easy enough to force open with your key card, a ballpoint pen, and a few precise positions of your fingers on the lock pad. The grass when he got outside shone with dew in the moonlight. He tipped his head back and found the moon full and bright as a pale sun.</p><p>Whatever Alana was, Hannibal was the opposite. Hannibal’s Will was unguarded. It was like having the covers ripped off, the shades forced open. When Hannibal looked in his eyes, Will knew that he could see the truth, hidden and misshapen but clear as if through glass to Hannibal’s steady gaze. It would be terrifying—it was terrifying. Except Hannibal didn’t play the judge. He examined Will and all of his darkness and agreed. Complimented. Hannibal didn’t get scared, and sometimes, that was the scariest thing of all. What kind of person could see so deeply and not shy away? </p><p>Will entered one of the school buildings through a window only two feet off the ground. The frame of the window squeaked when he pulled it open, and the sudden noise broke the thick silence unkindly.  He coaxed the window the rest of the way, tongue between his teeth as he concentrated on keeping it from drawing attention. He left it open after he’d lowered himself inside. The hallway around him was impossibly dark, and he walked forward without any inclination as to what he’d bump into. He only hoped they’d both be able to find the fountain. </p><p>Alana was life through the fog. Hannibal was life under a microscope. The safety in Will’s life before Alana had been provided by dogs, small meticulous tasks he could fill his mind with, and sitting alone in the dark. The clarity in his life hadn’t existed before Hannibal, at least not to that extent. A future with Alana would be secure. They would never truly understand each other, and in the lack of understanding, they could find ease and simplicity. They would be companionable. </p><p>A future with Hannibal would probably get Will killed. Or have him kill someone else. Another someone else. </p><p>A future with Hannibal could hardly exist. It appeared to Will like an impossible summer, the kind with late night bonfires and car chases and yelling at the top of your lungs. A future with Hannibal was a loaded gun heavy in your hand, pointed at your head. The spark of adrenaline and fear. A taste of life bigger and fuller than most would ever experience.</p><p>Will traced his fingers along the bricks in the wall as he continued forward. He’d take his phone out for the flashlight if necessary. In an unbroken childhood habit, he felt peace in the pitch black. His heavy footfalls ricocheted around him; they’d be able to find him by the sound alone, if nothing else.  </p><p>The air around him tasted damp and unreal.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> *** </p>
</div><p>A lantern—brass handle, real flame—was all Hannibal had chosen to bring with him. That, and the vial of Charles's blood, which had stayed on his person since he’d taken it two days ago. </p><p>If he’d worn one of his nicer suits, and a long coat that flew behind him as he descended the deserted stairs, it was pure coincidence. This late at night, the only ones to witness him were the ghosts. </p><p>It was a ghost who’d called him into this particular school building at this exact hour. Hannibal religiously didn’t believe in ghosts, and yet in his whole, powerful being he couldn’t come up with a better way to describe it. The feeling, the sense that he had to be here. Understanding without knowing how or why. Walking without knowing where he’d end up, only that it was where he was meant to be. </p><p>He stalled on the final step, moving the lantern in an arc to watch the rosy shadows stretch and distort. For a moment, he thought he heard someone behind him. He turned, lantern swinging, and found the staircase empty.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> *** </p>
</div>Will descended a flight of stairs, hanging heavily onto the railing and favoring his uninjured leg. He stumbled, shuffled forward two steps, catching himself just before falling. No one had ever been there to save Will when he fell. He’d always had to fight for himself.<p>He thought of the river water, the sun breaking through the grey clouds like a miracle, Hannibal’s hand locked around his jaw. He’d asked Hannibal to save him. He still wasn’t sure what either of them had wanted from the admission, and he didn’t think Hannibal knew, either. Hannibal’s hand on him hadn’t been safe, hadn’t caught him in time, but pain had its own appeal. Danger could create its own type of comfort, when things were as bad as they were going to get. When it could make you forget. </p><p>Hannibal hurt so much that Will forgot the rest of his pain. </p><p>When Alana had helped him through the forest, she’d put her hand around his waist half way back, after he’d fallen once more. The wiry muscles of her arm had supported him, and where embarrassment had bloomed he quickly felt instead community. To be held. To be lifted up when you could instead fall down. Alana didn’t really need him. She wanted him in the wrong ways. But she had caught him, and Will knew that if he asked her to stay she would. </p><p>Alana covered the pain. </p><p>Will fled deeper and deeper into the bowels of the building, into the floors that never saw the light of day. He hoped that the one he’d asked to meet him didn’t give up after the first five flights of stairs as he nearly had. He hoped they wouldn’t lose hope in him before he got down there. It was taking longer than he’d expected, on his injured ankle and in the dark. He didn’t want to be alone any more. His chest ached to arrive and find them waiting for him, thinking of him. </p><p>He crossed a large, open section lit by the red glow of emergency exit signs and moonlight through a window high above. The stomp of his father’s boots echoed across the floor, in a way disconnected to himself, a different entity from his small, silent body. He felt like a ghost. He curled his hands and let his nails bite into the meat of his palm as an anchor to reality. If he started to hallucinate down here, he may never come out of it. </p><p>Desperate to find them, to solidify his decision, Will threw the door open. The fountain spanned a circle in the center of the room. They stood just in front of it, their back to him. </p><p>Will’s couldn’t be certain he’d made the right call. He never would be. But he’d made it to this moment, with this person, and he’d never know what could have been if he stopped now.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> *** </p>
</div>It had taken longer than expected to get to the bottom floor, and his feet hurt in his Magnanni Monk Straps. Hannibal held the lantern up above his head to light up the whole room. A layer of dirt covered the ground, and a variety of shadowed objects stood pushed against the four walls. In the dead center of the room, a circle of bricks built its way from the ground, uneven and in an obvious state of decay. He placed the lantern on the ground, tilting it upwards to shine his way towards the fountain in the center of the room. He’d meant to take a closer look, but was drawn away by the clang of something against the far wall toppling over.<p>It fell with a clatter, glass breaking away in triangular chunks like shark teeth. Hannibal crouched to see the object from a different viewpoint. It was, or had been before breaking, a glass box, framed with gold edges. The gold hadn’t been real; it lay in a heap in the glass tangled together like thread. He carefully moved close enough to withdraw the little treasures the box had been keeping: pearly white stones, which he lay out on his palms with a sharp inhale. The teeth tinted red in the lantern’s light—four large, flat molars and three pointed incisors. They were unmistakably human teeth. Hannibal slid them into his pocket and felt their slight form pressing against him. </p><p>Hannibal’s nights rarely consisted of dreams, but he questioned briefly if he couldn’t be in a dream right then. In the scarlet light and long, thrown shadows, this seemed the appropriate hellscape to be thrust into during his dream, or someone else’s nightmare. What would Will think of this place? He’d want to know the history, and who the teeth had belonged to.</p><p>It was, of course, a valid question. The amount of dust pointed to no access in the room for many years, perhaps as long as a decade. The room hadn’t been easy to find. Hannibal closed his eyes, committing both the series of turns to get to this hidden room, and its contents, to memory. He could picture himself doing many things in this space, many floors underground, muffled from the living world. </p><p>He stepped back towards the lantern, passing it, and letting in guide him finally towards the circle of bricks. </p><p>He quickly changed his mind and returned to pick up the lantern. Even with the light held down inside the circle of bricks, the bottom of the fountain, if it could be called that, was still indistinguishable from the dark sides. The drop continued well below the floor or the room, as if it were some sort of well searching for water in the great depths. Hannibal dragged a finger along the top of the structure, soft dust clinging to his skin. He wiped it on his pants, and dipped his fingers between the clasps of his coat, brushing the buttons of his shirt. He withdrew the thin vial of blood and undid the lid. </p><p>The blood into the well didn’t make a sound. Hannibal counted the seconds until faintly the dripping of the viscous blood into a pool of liquid could be heard from deep within the brick shaft.</p><p>A scuffle behind him whipped his head around, and he lost grip on the vial. Delayed, the crash of broken glass sounded as he turned to face the entryway.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>Will’s heart rate spiked with adrenaline and indecision. He squinted his eyes as they adjusted to the light, and as the figure ahead of him turned around. They lead with their head, their eyes finding his immediately. They weren’t kind eyes. They had a sort of fire behind them. Will stepped towards them; he fought an apology from his lips. Now wasn’t the time to apologize, and even if it had been, he sure as hell didn’t know what he was meant to be apologizing for.<p>“I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” he said, voice scratchy from disuse. </p><p>“I didn’t think I would. You texted me at 10:00 at night requesting me to break into the school. Into a building I’d never heard of. I almost didn’t.” </p><p>it was Alana. </p><p>Because in the end, Will had chosen comfort. For the first time in his life, he’d chosen the closest thing to happiness. His mind swam with light. He felt out of place, like a deep sea creature dragged to the surface. Truth be told, he was more comfortable in the dark. In the pain. With Hannibal. </p><p>He closed the gap between them and pulled Alana’s face to his. </p><p>Her hair was sleek and cool in his rough fingers, her body falling easy against his. She blinked up at him, eyes softening. He took her chin in his hand, just as Hannibal had to him after pulling him from the river. He handled it roughly, as jarring as Hannibal had handed him. Saw in Alana the same uncertainty and submission as he’d felt in Hannibal’s grasp. </p><p>He drew them to the ground, landing on his knees over top of Alana. There was no choking water to pull her from, and no sun to shine gold in his hair and make heavenly the devil. They only had her hot breath and her quickening pulse, and Will could make do. </p><p>He wouldn’t ask her to see him as her savior. He doubted that he could be, and knew he wouldn’t want to try. He did force her head up, lift it so she had to look at him. And a step further than Hannibal had taken it, he leaned forward, waited for her to close the gap. He let his hand drop as their lips met. She took over, hands around him, tongue working into his mouth. </p><p>Once Will had dropped the act, had let Hannibal out of the equation, he lost interest. He waited for Alana to finish, playing the part without passion or want. Alana caught her breath as she pulled away and lifted herself to standing. </p><p>“You should have led with that. I wouldn’t have written a note for my roommate to find in case I wasn’t back by morning. Or maybe I would have, but a different note. With a couple less instructions.” She stepped back to sit against the edge of the dried marble fountain. She had a floating, blissful expression which didn’t entirely fit her face. </p><p>Will sank to the ground, head falling onto the hard floor. He turned to his side, drawing his knees to his chest in fetal position. </p><p>He’d known, as he knew now, that he hadn’t been made to enjoy comfort and safety.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>It had been a buck, with large, towering antlers and black eyes unburdened by the street lights. Such a creature, to a small child, was impossible. It could be a monster, or any sort of terrible thing to swallow you up at night. The fear he’d felt then, even all these years later, still clung to him. It had consumed a section of his lungs and refused to let it go. That was why, in the face of something just as fearful and awe-inspiring, Hannibal felt his breath taper off.<p>It was part of what made Will so absolutely necessary: they were both haunted by the same creature, in some ways different but in more ways the same. That Hannibal’s version of the buck had been alive and real was only a technicality. Will’s was real enough to him. It was the web of antlers like dry bones, and the imposing stance, and the connection to death that made them the same. It was how Hannibal’s had fallen, after the gun had fired. How its eyes had still bore into him as its head went down. </p><p>Unmistakably final. The knowledge that something in the world had changed and could never go back. There was nothing so final as death, or, at least, that’s what Hannibal had thought. </p><p>What he saw now, laid out in front of him, threatened to break that assumption. </p><p>With his back to the brick well, his lantern lifted high above his shoulder, Hannibal’s eyes darted from left to right as he read the letters scrawled across the wall. Written in blood fresh enough to drip. The lettering was jarring, as if done by a madman. </p><p>The buck hadn’t bled at first, and the child Hannibal had snuck close to its fallen body, waiting. Blood was everywhere by the end of it. Blood on his fingers, and scrawled across his face. </p><p>He looked to his free hand now and saw once more the dark red covering his fingers.</p><p>The message on the wall. The teeth in his pocket. The broken glass on the floor, and the vial, broken down the well. He had so much to do. </p><p>So much to do for Will.  </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b> End of Part One </b>
  </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Who were you expecting Will to find down there?</p><p>Thought? Questions? Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Offerings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hannibal entertains Will in his dorm late at night. Will fights an antlered hallucination part 2. The message is revealed.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b> 2.1 </b>
  </p>
</div>Will held Alana’s hand as they ascended the stairs and crawled back out onto the field—back into real life, into the sharp early-morning air. He led her to her dorm, and turned his head so she could kiss his cheek. He told her he didn’t think their relationship was working anymore. He walked away as she replied, deaf to her words, his attention already consumed by someone else.<p>He found Hannibal’s dorm, and the door unlocked. Of course, somehow, Hannibal knew he’d be coming. Will traced a finger along the edge of the door, lost in the familiar scent of Hannibal’s cologne. He could stand there forever, just breathing, and maybe that would be enough. </p><p>Visible through the crack in the doorway, Hannibal’s broad shoulder extended past the back of his chair. His attention was pointed downwards, as if he was examining something in his hands. Will took a tentative step forwards, quiet as to not be noticed. He was astounded by the size of Hannibal’s door room, which could have been more accurately described as the penthouse. Will waited for the hit of jealousy, but it didn’t come. Instead, he realized he'd accepted Hannibal’s space as an extension of his own. Too fast, too fast. </p><p>Seeing Hannibal in this place which was so obvious his own, from the meticulously clean counter tops to his row of shoes beside the door, Will was forced to remember that Hannibal was made of different materials than Will. Hannibal had already forged himself into a complete person, with opinions and standards. He knew what he wanted. </p><p>Would he want what Will wanted? </p><p>Will was still too quick to agree and placate. Push his own desires down until he hardly even felt them anymore. He could scarcely articulate what he wanted.</p><p>With his thoughts slamming around inside his brain, Will debated turning and leaving before Hannibal noticed him. It was late, past midnight now. There was no way he was thinking clearly. He should leave, sleep on it; he should wait until the morning to make decisions like this. </p><p>He stepped backwards, feeling around for the edge of the door. In his haste he bumped his elbow into the doorframe and held his breath as Hannibal visibly heard the noise, and turned to face him. </p><p>“Hello, Will,” Hannibal said from deep inside. </p><p>“I kissed Alana,” said Will, who’s brain and tongue were working against him. </p><p>“Why don’t you come in.” </p><p>Will shut the door at a sloth’s pace, dreading facing Hannibal. Who did he think he was to just watze in here and confess his… whatever he felt for Hannibal? Any confidence or decisiveness he’d found when he’d kissed Alana quickly fizzled away, leaving nothing but Will’s usual sense of wariness and learned detachment. </p><p>He kept his gaze trained on his toes as he gave himself away to the inside of Hannibal’s lair. </p><p>“May I brew you a cup of coffee? You’ve found me at an unfortunate hour, I’m afraid. I haven’t been able to get a wink of sleep all night.” </p><p>“Is it early enough for coffee?”  Will looked up in time to see Hannibal, who had at some point left his seat at the table to stand instead in the kitchenette, artfully flip two tiny mugs down from the cupboard. The mugs had gold-painted handles and emblems which looked like a funny little man with one finger pointed upwards. </p><p>“I bought these espresso cups in Rome when I couldn’t resist a great deal and a beautiful saleswoman. They would suggest that, in Italy, espresso is perfectly acceptable for any time of the day,” Hannibal’s gaze flitted to the dark squares of night time outside the windows, “or night.”  </p><p>“I’d have to disagree with the mugs. I haven’t seen the colosseum anywhere around here, have you?” Will, whose head was beginning to spin ever so slightly, pulled out one of the stools in front of the island and took a seat. He could go for a coffee. He wanted Hannibal to want him to go for a coffee. </p><p>“Alas, we are far from Italy. Perhaps one day we will stand together in the presence of the mighty Roman Colosseum, but for now, will you indulge me here?” </p><p>“Drink an espresso, you mean?”</p><p>“What else?” Hannibal paused in front of Will, looking down at him from the opposite side of the island.  The top of the counter came to his hips, which he pressed close to it, although his upper body leaned back, as if he wanted to get close to Will but couldn’t let Will see. </p><p>But that was just Will’s foolish, sleep-deprived imagination. </p><p>“Describe it to me.” </p><p>“The espresso? Ah.” Hannibal turned his back to Will, only so that he could begin setting up his fiddly espresso machine. “It is bitter. Many have the misconception that the bitterness must taste always unpleasant.” The machine began to sputter and produce steam. Will placed his forehead onto his arms, lulled by the white noise and Hannibal’s calmly instructive voice. “On the contrary, the bitterness is balanced by the sweetness of the roasted beans. One can hardly get by without a biting edge to come against the sweetness. A life so one-sided would be terribly dull.” Hannibal's voice faded away.</p><p>Will awoke to something cold and flat against his back. It took him a moment of concentration to remember that he’d been with Hannibal, and a moment more to place the thing against his back as the slats of the bar stool. He groaned, shifting his shoulders around to work out the kink in his back. </p><p>The scent of rich coffee cleared the sleepy haze immediately. “Hannibal?”</p><p>“You’ve only been asleep for twenty or so minutes.” He nudged the tiny mug closer towards Will’s face, which was still propped in his hands on the counter. Will wiped a drip of sleep drool off of the corner of his mouth before Hannibal could see it. </p><p>“The espresso’s still hot?” </p><p>“I hadn’t started brewing the second one before I noticed you’d fallen asleep.” Hannibal sat beside Will, his hands clasped together. “Go ahead. Tell me what you think.” </p><p>Will’s eyes caught a ray of sunlight through the window as he tilted his head back to drink the mug of coffee. The sunrise this soon seemed wrong. “It’s good.” </p><p>Hannibal didn’t reply. He tapped his fingers together twice, and stood from the island. He’d retreated towards the center of the room before Will could manage to string a more descriptive sentence together. </p><p>“Delicious? Deep?” What was it that Hannibal had said? “It’s good, Hannibal, really,” Will called over his shoulder. </p><p>Hannibal returned with his hands closed delicately in front of his chest. “It does not greatly concern me, Will, what you think of the espresso. Are you so inclined to placate me? Worry not — it will be done regardless.” </p><p>“I please you?” If he hadn’t been so caught off guard, Will wouldn’t have been able to ask so bluntly. </p><p>“Close your eyes, Will. I have something to give you.” </p><p>Will sat against the back of his chair and closed his eyes. It wasn’t a difficult thing to want to do; even after the espresso, he could have fallen back to sleep easily if it weren’t for Hannibal’s cool fingers adjusting his shirt collar from the back, and looping something even colder and light as smoke over his neck. </p><p>Was there a possibility that Hannibal would hurt him? Will, vulnerable and drowsy, completely open and defenseless with Hannibal’s hands near his neck. A quieted part of his mind called out for him to summon all the strength he could find and flee. Will patted that part down until it was less than a fly buzzing in the other room. He stilled, ready for whatever Hannibal may do to him. </p><p>He didn’t feel safe, that wouldn’t be the right word. If anything, he felt right. Like he finally belonged somewhere. He’d found the edge to balance the sweet mondanity. </p><p>With the subdued click of two pieces coming together, Hannibal’s hands moved off of Will and Will heard him move away. “You may open your eyes now.” </p><p>Will did as he’d been told, although opening his eyes wasn’t what let him know what Hannibal had done. That was by his one hand, roaming across his collar bones until it ran into something which definitely hadn’t been there before. His fingers followed the chain down until they reached the bottom and found a smooth pendant. He ducked his chin to see it, but the necklace lay too high on his chest for him to be able to see much of it while it was on. He switched his hand around to the back of his neck, fumbling for the clasp. </p><p>“You wish to remove it?” Hannibal said, tone blank. </p><p>“I want to see it.” </p><p>Hannibal stepped towards him once more and took over unclasping the necklace. He passed it over Will’s shoulder. The chain coiled up in Will’s open palm like a thin, metallic snake. </p><p>He brushed his thumb along the chain, ignoring for now the pendant. When the urge arose to squeeze his hand into a fist around the necklace, just to see what would happen, he laid it out onto the counter in front of him. The silver-white of the chain appeared to shine on the dark stone of the countertop. </p><p>He nudged and prodded at the chain until it lay in a straight line, still unclasped, parallel to the edge of the counter. Only after he couldn’t image any other way to buy time did Will move his attention over to the pendant. </p><p>He regarded it the way one might a venomous animal. Mistrustfully.  </p><p>It was a plain, unassuming pendant, about the size of one pad of his finger. In its center it held a single jewel, if it was to be called a jewel. It looked more like a rock. Whatever it was, the milky white substance sat dull and unimpressive in its dark backing, nearly overshadowed by the braided silver pattern encircling it.</p><p>Will brushed a finger over the pendant. The jewel in the center was warmer than all of the metal around it, almost like it was alive. It reminded him eerily of bones. “What is it?” </p><p>“A gift.” Hannibal reached over Will’s shoulder to touch the necklace. He pulled the chain straight once more where Will had brushed the line askew. </p><p>Will meant to ask the name of the gem. Perhaps where Hannibal had gotten it. A single word fell from his lips instead: “Why?” </p><p>Hannibal picked up the necklace and brought it to Will’s neck once more. He did the clasp, and fixed the pendant to that it hung flush against Will’s sternum. “Will you wear it?” </p><p>“I haven’t decided yet.” </p><p>Hannibal stepped to Will’s side and looked him in the eye as he spoke. “Why does anyone buy a gift? At least in part, when giving a gift, there is always a selfish reason. The only way to give entirely selflessly would be to leave the gift anonymously, and to allow the receiver to open the gift in private. One gives a gift to receive for themself praise, thanks, and entitlement.”</p><p>“What does this necklace entitle you to?” Will dragged his fingers over it. Each time they ran into the strange stone, he was reminded of its warmth. </p><p>“I suppose-”</p><p>“You haven’t ‘supposed’ a single thing in your entire life, Hannibal. Tell me what you really think of when you see me with your gift.” Will wrapped a hand around the pendant, poised to rip it off of himself. </p><p>“I think of a dog with a collar.” Hannibal’s eye contact remained unfaltering. </p><p>“You’ve claimed possession of me.” One firm tug and the necklace would be gone. Everything made free. Will couldn’t bring himself to do it. </p><p>“I’ve never before felt any desire to allow a person to know me. I find myself pulled to, with you. Before I let you see me, I need to know you are with me. That we are one.” </p><p>“Shouldn’t I have a say in this?” </p><p>Hannibal opened his arms at his sides. “You have every option available to you.” </p><p>Will considered. He tightened and loosened his fist around the pendant. He could still taste the bitter tang of the espresso on his tongue, and the ghost of Hanniba’s hands near his neck. If Hannibal had wanted to hurt him, it would already be done. </p><p>The ceiling turned to swirling clouds above him, and Hannibal began to grow antlers. <i>Unfortunate timing,</i> Will thought idly, before the hallucination claimed him. </p><p>Where before Hannibal had stood, there now towered a human-shaped creature which had lost its spark of humanity. Its flesh rotted and fell off; its face sat blank, with empty sockets for eyes. The most horribly magnificent things were its antlers, great and twisting towards the sky. They made the creature appear even taller. </p><p>Will registered faintly someone saying his name, but the creature’s thin lips didn’t move and so that, too, he must have been imagining. He remained glued on the bar stool in shock, which grew and propelled him forwards when the creature’s six-fingered hand attempted to reach towards him. Will slid around and over the opposite side of his chair, ran a few steps towards the front door, and switched course to move instead deeper into the dorm room. </p><p>If the real Hannibal were still inside, he’d need to be warned of the creature. Will couldn’t leave him unknowing and unprepared. Will tried to call Hannibal’s name, but somewhere between his lungs and his mouth the gust of air lost its force. All that he managed to produce was a weak cry as he stumbled past a corner of the dining table. His head pounded.</p><p>Will opened doors at random, discovering many large, furnished rooms. All vacant. He glanced over his shoulder at random intervals to ensure that the creature wasn’t sneaking up on him. It appeared to have lost interest, or else was waiting for the perfect time to strike, as it was still standing against the far wall.  Each time it drew in a breath, Will could see the outline of its ribs. </p><p>Will entered the third room he tried. A packed bookcase watched him trip inside, bracing himself with a hand against one wall. His headache was getting worse, and it was biting right up against the front of his skull and into his eyes. He tried to call for Hannibal again, and couldn’t tell if the words had been produced or not. He took a shaky step forwards, then leaned to the side, bumping into the bookcase. A couple of books near the bottom, too large to fit nicely onto the shelf, overbalanced and toppled onto the ground. Their pages fluttered as they fell. </p><p>From the pages of one of the books flew a wrinkled scrap of paper. It was carried loftily towards the open window, where it stuck against the glass for a brief moment before disappearing into the early morning. Will had a strange split-second where he thought he recognized the paper, but with a surge of his headache the thought was gone. </p><p>He’d been joined in the room by the creature, which flashed and was Hannibal, still in his button-up shirt with the sleeves undone and pushed up to his elbows. The haze which had clouded Will’s mind and revealed the creature bled from the air, and the vibrant colours returned. He tried once more to say Hannibal’s name and was pleased to be able to finally create the sound. </p><p>“Hannibal.”</p><p>“Will. You’ve had another hallucination.” </p><p>“No, I—” Will began to argue. This time it had felt different, more important, somehow. Yet, he supposed in essence Hannibal was right. It had simply been another hallucination. Will looked up at Hannibal to continue speaking, and found him on the other side of the room, shoulders and head outside of the now wide-open window. </p><p>“The piece of paper, it flew outside?” It wasn’t really a question. </p><p>Hannibal’s voice tilted towards dangerous, as if the missing piece of paper had been a great loss. His eyes had darkened, and his posture was rigid. He melted away until the creature had replaced him once more.</p><p>The room surged around Will as all things vibrant and warm gave way for the pale otherness of his hallucinations. Will, startled at the loss of Hannibal, in a mad hope of saving him from the grasp of the beast, lunged forwards. He got his hands around the creatures shoulders and flung it to the side. </p><p>For how frail the creature looked, it’s shoulders were firm under Will’s fingers, and it was strong enough to push him against the window. Will’s shaky arms and legs couldn’t do much but bat weekly against the creature. His headache threatened to devour him from the inside out. </p><p>The creature held WIll steady, its many fingers encircling his arms. It bent its head close to his. Its breath blew against Will’s cheek. Will tried to scream. He kicked his feet out and flung himself to the side, managing enough power to make the creature stumble backwards. </p><p>In pushing the creature away from him, Will had also flung himself in the opposite direction. He’d flung himself back  until he’d fallen over the edge of the window. Had he climbed two, three flights of stairs to get to Hannibal’s dorm?</p><p>He fell past all of them and to the ground below.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>Will had been taken to the on-campus hospital. The situation was less than ideal. Had Hannibal known the hallucination would go so far as to see Will fall from a third-story window,  he would never have let it go on for so long.<p>If Will said anything about the hallucination as the cause of the fall, his doctor would find the encephalitis. It would be cured. Will would be cured. </p><p>It was less than ideal.  </p><p>Hannibal retraced his steps down far below the occupied floor of the English building. He wanted to return to the hidden room, if only to prove to himself that it hadn’t all been a dream. The teeth, now one less, clicked together in his pocket as the only physical evidence he had from the discovery.</p><p>Floors and floors above him, classes began. He would be marked absent for the first time since transferring. He found himself unable to care. </p><p>Would Will be different once the encephalitis had been cured? How much of the person he was now had been borne from his hallucinations and headaches? </p><p>From which part of him had come the portion of Will that appealed to Hannibal? Or the part of Hannibal which appealed to Will? For there must be some appeal on both levels, if Will would show up to his dorm in the middle of the night to profess his desires. (His desire to kiss Alana, Hannibal reminded himself painfully.) </p><p>It would be harder to let Will know him now that nothing he said could be blamed on his condition. Now that the trust would have to be complete. </p><p>The only person Hannibal had ever trusted completely was himself. Himself and Mischa, but that was besides the point. </p><p>The room, with its circular structure of bricks in the center of the floor, was hard to mistake. If it hadn’t been for the memorable centerpiece, Hannibal may have moved on to check for the right room through a different set of identical windowless doors. The mark he’d been most interested in finding again had vanished. </p><p>Where just hours earlier Hannibal had read a message dripping in fresh blood, he now saw only a grimy wall, covered in dust and chipping paint but otherwise untouched. He dragged his fingers along the wall at the same height as the letters had been, and found it dry. Nothing at all to point to what had once been. </p><p>His teeth — the ones in his mouth — clenched together in disappointment. What a waste to lose the beautiful, hard-earned blood painting. Like an entire ship lost to the sea, not a trace of it remaining. A silent tragedy. </p><p>Hannibal bowed his head and took a step back. He took the concealed dagger from his pocket, and held it tightly in his right hand. He would ensure the message received the respect it deserved. This time, it wouldn’t be so easily washed away. </p><p>He carved the message from memory into the wall letter by blade-dulling letter. When he’d finished, he walked across the room to admire his work from a distance. </p><p>Written for all to see, permanent and unmovable, the message read:</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> Fresh blood has awoken the whilom king. </p>
</div><div class="center">
  <p> Be wary; the newest trust is marred </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Dunno what it is about necklaces as a symbolic gesture, but this is the second time I've written about one member of a pairing giving a necklace to the other.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Institutions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Will's hospital stay creates more questions than answers.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b> 2.2 </b>
  </p>
</div>The steady, constant rhythm of mechanical beeping guided Will in and out of sleep. His eyelids were too heavy to open. His limbs were too stiff to move. When he could get his mind to focus on anything, he focused on breathing. He was cold, too cold to move, and yet sweat dripped from his brow. It drip-drip-driped loudly. So loudly. Or, no, that was the other thing. The beeping from somewhere close behind him.<p>When Will awoke more completely, the world on the other side of his eyelids had brightened, sending white-ish, orange-ish light to his still-closed eyes. He tried again to open them. Surely, if it was morning, he should open his eyes. The bed underneath him felt too squishy to be the cot in his dorm. He didn’t remember falling asleep. He tried to think back to falling asleep, but the memory cut off and all he could think of was pain. The pain as he remembered it bled into the present and he cried out, thin between chapped lips, as he realized he was in pain still. The soft click of a button sounded from beside him, and the pain eased. </p><p>The machine continued to beep. </p><p>A man’s voice spoke over him. Will opened his eyes and then took a moment to realize that he had actually succeeded in opening them. The stark-white, sterile discomfort of a hospital room greeted him. Everything shone too brightly, and if not close enough to him lost its form entirely.</p><p>Will turned his head to press one side against his pillow. He saw the same discongruent scene, now horizontal. His feet were tangled in the powder-blue sheet. The rail of the hospital bed trapped him in. Everything past that, a blur. He’d never been in a hospital bed before. The last time he’d been in a hospital, his mother had died. He should have been too young to remember it. </p><p>For the most part, he had been too young. All the details of her death, how and why, exactly when, escaped him. And his father was never willing to talk about it. He remembered only the absolute fear and numbing sadness. The unspoken knowledge that his life would never be the same, and that he was losing something fundamental, and irreplaceable. </p><p>The man standing over him droned on, speaking no words Will could understand. He searched for the steady beeping, just to hear something familiar. </p><p>He’d never been in a hospital bed before. </p><p>Everyone who laid in a hospital bed never got up again. He would never get up again. </p><p>“I'm sorry, I have to go,” Will said. His tongue sat heavy in his mouth and he was sure the words had been near impossible to understand. The man would understand what he needed when Will stood up. </p><p>Trying to sit hurt. The left side of his back, high in his shoulder and expanding down towards that arm, burnt hot and aching. He was caught by wires attached to the crook of his elbow, which left an oozing spot of blood when he pulled them away. Someone else’s hands were on him, trying to plug the wires back into him. </p><p>“I have to go,” Will said. “I’m still alive.” </p><p>He swung a leg off the bed. His leg was lifted back onto the bed, and his back was guided back down. He tried to fight them off with his good hand. </p><p>“No, no. Let me go!” Someone was keeping his ankles and his wrists in place. He thrashed his head side to side. His mother hadn’t wanted to die. Or maybe that’d been him, hoping and wishing with then-unbroken youthful optimism. Shattered. He hadn’t fought hard enough. Now the same thing was happening, and he was forcefully being taken away. Put here to never leave again. </p><p>His heart beat in his throat, and his breaths came out in puffs around his continued pleas. A plastic mask was pressed over his mouth, and his eyes drifted shut. Why had he been so afraid? The bed was so soft. Someone was smoothing back his hair and telling him to sleep. </p><p>The machine beeped. </p><p>Will slept and slept. </p><p>Two pillows propped behind him helped Will sit up. His left arm had been tightened in a sling over his chest to help stabilize his shoulder. When he’d woken up this time, things had made more sense. He still had a nagging want to leave the hospital bed, but he doubted that that wasn’t universal. Everything since arriving at Hannibal's dorm however long ago was a blur.</p><p>“You have a fractured scapula.” His doctor sat in an arm chair at his side, patient chart in hand. The lines on his face entertained Will, as they were uneven and he had quite a time trying to find the exact places where the symmetry was imperfect. Like a ‘Find the Difference’ puzzle. </p><p>“Because I fell from a third story window?” </p><p>“Do you remember falling?” </p><p>“I remember enough.”  All of his clothes had been replaced by the hospital gown, yet the necklace was all he wanted back. The necklace; he remembered his gift, its weight and its cold chain. Hannibal's admission of its intent. Maybe he’d broken the necklace in the fall, but when was his life ever so simple?</p><p>“You’ve suffered a concussion, Mr.Graham. It will be helpful for us if you tell me how much you can recall.” </p><p>Will smoothed the thin hospital sheet over his knee with his free hand. “Would it be possible to get another blanket? I think I'm getting cold.” He needed a moment to think in peace. To decide if what he was feeling for Hannibal was missing him or hating him.</p><p>The doctor made a show of closing the chart, shaking his head all the while. “I will be back to continue this conversation shortly.” </p><p>When his sliding door had clicked shut once more, Will leaned back against the pillows-and-headboard, letting his eyes close. He’d hardly been fully awake for twenty minutes, and yet here he was, falling towards sleep yet again. How simple life would be if this was all he ever had to do. Simple and dull. </p><p>The door whirred softly as it was pulled open anew. He waited for the nurse to come in and add a blanket; when the new blanket didn’t come, his pulse quickened and he forced his eyes to open and focus ahead. Will had been surprised at his disappointment when he’d woken up, coherent and alone. He'd found himself expecting to see Hannibal, and now, time froze as he hoped for Hannibal’s face. </p><p><i> Will would watch Hannibal fall out of a window and then never visit him. See how he iked it.</i>   </p><p>Will sat in anticipation as a new body stepped through the door. His questioning gaze was quickly taken over by brief distress as he realized that the person who’d come to visit him was evidently not Hannibal. </p><p>Alana. </p><p>Her hair was tied up in an untidy ponytail, yet her face and eyes were vibrant as ever. She held a coffee that she didn’t appear to need nor want, as the dark liquid inside of the lidless paper cup sloshed dangerously close to the top. </p><p>“Oh good, you’re coherent.” She didn’t sound all that excited about it. She didn’t sit on the armchair, but instead loitered a few feet away from him, nearer to the wall. She let her gaze stick to his sling and the medical tape over his shoulder. </p><p>“Broken scapula.” </p><p>“I know.” She looked to the coffee in her hand, and as if she’d just now remembered she was holding it, placed it on the tray beside his bed. “Can you drink coffee?”</p><p>“Yes.” He had no idea what he could or couldn’t drink. He felt as if he hadn’t eaten a single thing in weeks. With some difficulty, Will arched his back so that his good arm could slowly bring the cup to his face. He breathed in the scent of it, strong and acidic. The cheap stuff from the cafeteria. The coffee in Will’s mouth was too hot, with too much flavor yet at the same time, somehow, terribly empty. </p><p>He placed it back down on the tray and rearranged his pillows. </p><p>“I have your calculus homework.” </p><p>“Maybe I’ll drop the class.” </p><p>Alana’s mouth dropped open as if Will had admitted to murder. Which he could do, he supposed darkly. “Don’t say that. You’ve only missed half a week.” </p><p>“Maybe I’ll drop out entirely.” Will didn’t know why he suddenly imagined himself running away. It had always been at the back of his mind. He was bad at committing to things, and doing so without at least the building blocks of an escape plan in the depths of his mind would be torture. It felt more possible, now, escaping. </p><p>“Is Hannibal pressuring you?” She tugged at the end of her jacket sleeve. “Don’t look at me like that — of course I know about you and him. I know everything, haven’t you learned yet?” A joking smile had crept onto her face by the end of her sentence. She wiped it off as if it had offended her. </p><p>“No. Not that it’s any of your business.” Because they’d ended whatever weak relationship they’d had. She didn’t even have any reason to be here, really. No obligation. </p><p>Before he could tell her so, Alana spoke once more: “He isn’t good for you, Will. He’ll dig his claws in and drag you down before you could realize. I wish you’d told me he was trying to get close to you, so that I could have helped you get away from him earlier.” </p><p>“I can handle myself, Alana.” </p><p>“That hospital bed and broken shoulder say differently.” </p><p>Will scowled indignantly. “So that’s why you’re here? To play all high and mighty, telling me what to do? You have no place. I ended our empty romance.”</p><p>She tilted her chin downwards to watch her ankles as she crossed one over the other. When she responded, it was to the ground. “We may have ended our <i>empty romance,</i> but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring for you. Friends can help each other out, too, Will.”  </p><p>“You can’t possibly be trying to tell me that you have no ulterior motive.”</p><p>“As if I’d break you up with Hannibal to get you for myself again? God, Will, do you think so poorly of me?” </p><p>“Hannibal and I aren’t together.” And then, as an afterthought, “I’m not gay.” </p><p>Alana had the audacity to chuckle. “It seems that in some ways it’s good you’ll be stuck here for a little while longer. It’ll give you time to look deep inside yourself.” She placed a hand over her heart pretentiously. “Delve deep into your soul.” </p><p>“Get out of here.” Will said. He turned his head away from her, and waved his good arm dismissively. “Take your crap coffee.”</p><p>The telltale thump of a stack of papers on the counter sounded, followed by Alana’s footsteps towards the door. </p><p>The footsteps stopped, and Will waited for the whoosh of the door pulling open. </p><p>“You’re not alone, you know? There are people who care for you. Don’t go to Hannibal just because you think he’s your only option.” </p><p>Will made a point of staying quiet, and so Alana left. What she couldn’t take with her was the growing sense of uneasiness and confusion that she’d let loose inside of Will. A colour-shifting, world altering, unmentionable truth began to build itself from all of the seemingly unimportant split-seconds of Will’s past. </p><p>He tasted the truth on his tongue just long enough to fear it, and pushed it back down where it belonged. </p><p>He had another sip of Alana’s terrible coffee just to wash the taste out of his mouth.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>The elderly professor in the patient room next to Will’s wasn’t Hannibal’s great aunt, but you wouldn’t be able to prove it. By this point she might as well have been, for how long Hannibal had spent sitting vigil at her bedside. All that time really spent, of course, listening intently to the hushed conversations and scuffling from Will’s room.<p>He’d been there the night Will had screamed. Hannibal’s instinct had been to rush around the corner, nearly going so far as to enter Will’s room. He’d watched as Will’s body, hooked up to various IVs and heavily bandaged, thrashed about on his bed. His leg, finally breaking free of the tangled sheet, swung itself towards the ground as Will’s face turned to face the doorway. His eyes had opened, and Hannibal was caught red-handed by his wild gaze. But Will hadn’t really seen him. The doctors had guided him back down onto his bed and his cries had slowly subsided. </p><p>It hadn’t been anything close to what Hannibal had expected. The display had been far too raw and truthful for anything that Will would have done while fully awake. A look too deep into his past. Something he chose to keep locked inside of him, which had against his will been pulled into the open. </p><p>Hannibal enjoyed coaxing people to tell him more than they’d intended. He found an admittedly unkind enjoyment in the way they clamped their mouths shut afterwards, and how they always proceeded to draw farther into themselves as if in compensation. If he carefully watched their eyes, he could pinpoint the moment they found themselves laid bare. </p><p>He didn’t enjoy it when the one in the open was Will. </p><p>Hannibal could have run into Will’s room, thrown a thicker blanket over him to shield him from everyone else’s eyes. Hold a pillow over his mouth to stop the screams and dull his words. Hide him away until he only existed for Hannibal.</p><p>Hannibal would have done it. He could have done it. </p><p>Most days had been far less eventful. When Will’s room had been clear of doctors or nurses, Hannibal had let himself in to read through his chart. He found that they suspected Will of a concussion, but had yet to run any imaging tests on his brain. No reason, therefore, to suspect they’d found the encephalitis.</p><p>Hannibal had used that time as well to look over Will. Will who lay as still as a corpse in the bed, positioned squarely on his back with his arm bent over his chest, one pillow propped under his head and a second at his injured side. The chair next to his bed, meant for visits from friends and loved ones, had stayed constantly empty. </p><p>Hannibal had invited himself to sit down.</p><p>He walked past Will’s room now, towards the old lady’s, and looked through the window at Will as was customary. Instead of Will, still and ghostly and alone, Hannibal saw him sitting up and involved in a conversation.  </p><p>Before Will could see him, Hannibal swung around into the old lady’s room. She mumbled a dazed hello. Hannibal, as per usual, ignored her. </p><p>He’d made himself a latte, now staying warm in his stainless steel travel mug. He took a sip, moving it around in his mouth before swallowing to taste the rich, woody flavours of his Brazilian coffee beans. Alana’s voice could be heard from Will’s room, and she didn’t sound happy. </p><p>Hannibal would have expected her to visit sooner, seeing as they were intimate enough to kiss. Unfortunately Will hadn’t ever elaborated on the kiss. </p><p>The specific act of Will kissing Alana wasn’t what Hannibal wanted to hear about. On the contrary, being subjected to a detailed account of that would be a sweet torture. The kiss on its own, however… the general account of what it would be like to do such a thing to a person… </p><p>Hannibal shook his head to dislodge that train of thought. He listened for Alana’s voice, and could no longer hear it. He pressed his ear to their shared wall to be sure. Once certain that Alana had left, Hannibal rounded the corner again, stopping in front of Will's closed door to fix his shirt collar. All he needed from Will was proof that his condition would remain undiscovered. As he opened Will’s door, Hannibal tried to convince himself that that was all he <i>wanted</i> from this visit, too.</p><p>“I said go, Alana.” Will said, face pressed against his pillow in feigned sleep. </p><p>Hannibal shifted the travel mug to his other hand so that he could close the sliding door. This was, he realized absently, the smallest room he and Will had been enclosed in together. Other than his car, of course. That little trip felt a lifetime away already. </p><p>“I don’t care what you think about him. I-” Will sat up and registered Hannibal. He nearly smiled, the corners of his mouth twitching as his eyes widened. He fought the smile away in favor of a bored, empty frown. “It’s you.” </p><p>“How are you today, Will?” By habit, Hannibal began to move towards the chair by Will’s side. He decided against sitting, as the familiarity may bring questions, but by that point he was too close to Will’s bed to have arrived there for no reason. He opted to place his travel mug on Will’s tray, where it joined what looked like a paper cup of tar, but which Hannibal knew to be the repellent excuse for coffee they sold at the cafeteria. He’d taken a cup of it once, on a whim, and had mourned the taste buds he’d lost. </p><p>“Another home-brewed coffee from you, Hannibal? You spoil me.” Will said, eyeing the travel mug. </p><p>“I hadn’t anticipated that someone would beat me to it.”  </p><p>Will sat taller on the bed, adjusting the pillows behind himself. His hair, greasy at the scalp, hung limply over his forehead. He took a drink from the travel mug, and closed his eyes. “Your coffee makes the cafeteria’s cry in shame.” </p><p>“Anything made from actual coffee beans would do the same.”</p><p>“You’re suggesting their coffee isn’t really coffee at all?”</p><p>“I would go so far as to say the same for every item they serve.” </p><p>“Except the crepes,” Will said.</p><p>“Except the crepes,” Hannibal agreed. On the first Monday of each month, chefs from the french bakery drove up the hill with all of their equipment and served their goods. It was the only cafeteria meal worth any money. “But I digress,” Hannibal placed one hand on Will’s ankle, over top of the blanket. “Have you received any word on when you’ll be able return with me to school?” </p><p>Will, who’d been greedily drinking Hannibal’s coffee, lowered the mug from his lips. “If they don’t release me soon, I’m leaving by force.”</p><p>“Give me the word, Will, and I’ll get you out of here.” </p><p>“You’d do that for me?” </p><p>“Of course,” Hannibal said. Will out of the hospital would mean his undiagnosed condition would remain as such. Everything would be back in Hannibal’s control. </p><p>Will looked to Hannibal with an expression so sincere that it forced Hannibal to look away. Guilt, unfelt for so long, crept its way towards him. Hannibal dropped his hand off of Will’s leg so that his palm pressed into the bed. </p><p>“I lost your necklace,” Will said.  </p><p>“Is that your answer to my proposal?”</p><p>“No.” Will reached for Hannibal, couldn’t quite touch him without moving so that he hurt himself. “Somehow it's the opposite.” </p><p>Will’s fingers, stretched towards Hannibal, wanting. Trusting. Ready to make a promise. </p><p>Guilt. Like ice freezing his blood in his veins. </p><p>“Wrong decision.” Hannibal took his coffee from Will, motion uncontrolled, spilling a few scalding drips onto Will’s chest. “Do not pursue entropy, Will. It will only disappoint you in the end.” </p><p>The sliding door had been built in a way so that it could not slam. Hannibal, on the other side of the door, threw his mug of coffee at the corridor wall to substitute the noise.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>My obsession with coffee appears to have infiltrated my writing. Ah, well; write what you know, I guess.</p><p>Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Gates</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hannibal tries to keep certain details secret. Will leads a confrontation and an escape.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>2.3</b>
  </p>
</div><p>Hannibal retreated back into the elderly professor’s patient room, the mess of thrown coffee spreading out behind him. The old lady was sleeping, and Hannibal stepped soundlessly past her. He sat on the chair, which he’d pulled away from her bed and positioned to face her window. The hard back of the chair dug into his shoulder blades as he leaned against it. </p><p>Outside, the schoolyard had been painted in warm browns by the overcast sky, like a sepia photo. The sciences building, with its many rectangular windows and high, arching roof, ate up a stream of students arriving for their morning classes. Hannibal thought of his textbooks and notebooks, and of the midterms he should be studying for. </p><p>Will, in his tired, drugged up hospital state, was ready to undergo their relationship on Hannibal’s terms. Wonderful. Now, the only loose end was Will’s encephalitis. Once everything had moved back into Hannibal’s control, he would have it well in his capabilities to weaken Will. Weaken and charm him until he fell for Hannibal. </p><p>Hannibal sat straighter on the chair and almost made it fall backwards with the momentum. </p><p>Even now, he could hear Will’s breathing through the wall. How energizing, the thought of Will wanting him like that. How easy, then, to bend Will to his pleasure. How simple, as such, to always have Will beside him, to let no one else have him. </p><p>No one else. He wouldn't let all of their work go to waste because of an unfortunately timed hospital stay, and a doctor who didn't know when enough was enough. Hannibal stood. He patted his pockets and strode to the corridor. On his way past Will’s room, Hannibal took Will’s patient chart from its place hanging on his door, unclipped the second page, and hung the clipboard back up. </p><p>Had he been wearing a lab coat and scrubs, Hannibal would have been able to pass as a medical intern. Even as a student, he was certain he’d know more about medicine than the lot of them. It would have been too personal, too obvious to steal and wear their clothes. The clothes of his future, should he stay on this current path. </p><p>He asked at the help desk for the whereabouts of Will’s doctor. He gave up his act as the elderly professor’s great nephew, introducing himself as Will’s classmate sent to find out when Will would be returning to classes. He used the page from Will’s patient chart, folded into an empty pocket, for Will’s doctor’s name.  </p><p>Hannibal was directed by the secretary to check the staff room, or outside by the doors as the doctor liked to go out for a smoke to round out his lunch breaks. He followed the corridor past empty rooms and crowded rooms and, most often, rooms occupied by just one person, still on the bed, more statue than human. More dead than alive. It was a cruel fate, to die slowly, decaying daily. Especially when done alone. </p><p>Luckily for him, Will’s doctor wouldn’t have to fear coming to that end. </p><p>A heavy, windowless door led Hannibal to a stairwell. Cold, damp air surrounded him as the door closed him in. There was just enough light to see by, provided by bare light bulbs at random intervals along the stairwell. Alone and in the privacy of the enclosed staircase, Hannibal thought of the possessions he carried in his pockets. He was careful to not misstep on the stairs as he kept walking, his hands working to find the items. </p><p>The first one his fingers wound around was the chain of Will’s necklace, colder than the air and soft like water on his skin. He wound the chain around his hand, letting the pendant rest in the center of his palm. After Will had fallen from the window, after someone had seen him and brought help, after Will had been taken to the hospital, Hannibal had swept the square of grass far below his window and found it. </p><p>The necklace must have been jostled off of Will when he’d landed, or while they'd picked him up and placed him on the stretcher. No part of it had been broken, and the clasp could still open and close as before. Hannibal thought of giving it back to Will, and couldn’t escape the image of Will’s wide-eyes. Unguarded things were easier to break. Known things easier to betray. Hannibal let the necklace fall into his breast pocket, where the weight of it was noticeable each time he breathed. In this way, he’d bring Will with him. Attach him to another life. </p><p>Hannibal withdrew next his knife. He’d chosen the biggest one he could easily conceal on his person. It was disturbing, the things one could carry with them into a hospital, Hannibal thought with humour. His knife had a thin, sharp blade with a slight curve towards the end. He’d protected the blade with a cover, and despite trying in different ways couldn’t manage to remove the sheath without it squeaking against the blade. It only meant he’d need to work a bit faster, but it would ruin the elegance of the moment, which was unfortunate. </p><p>Hannibal moved the knife to hang off of his belt for ease of access. </p><p>Lastly, he found his latex gloves and put them on, pulling at the ends of the fingers. They were the same gloves worn by the medical staff. Hannibal didn’t let himself think about any sort of metaphor that might be able to be written between the life he planned to take, and the lives he was training to be able to save in the future. The metaphors were already becoming thick on the ground. </p><p>He emerged from the staircase and was thankful for the dull autumn day. Had there been full sun, he would have had to take a moment to let his eyes adjust. As it was, the moment Hannibal gained was the same moment he needed to see the doctor turn the far corner of the building, line of smoke from his cigarette trailing after him. </p><p>Hannibal drew close to the wall as he stalked towards where Will’s doctor had left his line of vision. A group of students, upper-years with dark bags under their eyes, walked in a slow huddle just past him. Hannibal took two long steps away from the building to join the group, using them to hide in plain sight. They walked up to the corner of the building, and Hannibal broke away from them as they continued straight down the path. </p><p>The doctor’s back, visible from his white lab coat, faced Hannibal, about five strides away. Hannibal let his hand trail the wall as he stepped once, twice towards the doctor. His fingers brushed over the papery leaves of the ivy that climbed the building. When he’d closed in half the distance towards the doctor, Hannibal reached as high as he could along the wall and tugged a vine of the ivy. The plant moved as one, and just as he’d intended, Hannibal’s action brought the ivy ahead of the doctor into eye-catching motion. </p><p>He let the movement distract him as Hannibal withdrew his knife from its sheath and finished closing the distance between them. He pressed the knife against Will’s doctor’s neck, catching him against the wall. His cigarette lit up as he took a last, frantic drag. The orange light accentuated his face and the imperfections in his skin, making him appear older than he was. Hannibal flicked the cigarette to the ground and put it out with the toe of his shoe. </p><p>“My wallet? You want money? I’ll give you what you want, please,” the doctor said, his words falling over themselves.</p><p>So quickly, the brave and mighty caved in. Hannibal had never learned more of the true nature of people than when he had their life in his hands. </p><p>The doctor, in his panic, tried to reach for the pockets of his lab coat, presumably to take out a wallet or something he could use as a weapon. Hannibal caught his wrist and restricted the movement, bringing his knife tighter against his throat. </p><p>“Please don’t embarrass yourself, doctor. I only intend to ask after one of your patients. A Mr. Will Graham.”</p><p>“Yes, yes. What do you want to know?” </p><p>Rather unimpressive, how little it took for the old doctor to forget his oath of secrecy. Unimpressive, and boring. Hannibal switched the position of the blade so that it would kill with the slightest of pressure. The adjustment was simply for his own enjoyment, to watch the man squirm. He had no doubt that the man would readily give away any information Hannibal wanted. </p><p>“You’ve been treating him for a concussion, among other things. Have you any reason to suspect any other ailments?” </p><p>“You mean the encephalitis?” </p><p>Hannibal pushed the knife into the doctor’s neck, drawing a line of blood. The doctor spluttered. “I don’t imagine you’ve gone ahead and disclosed this condition with Will yet, have you?” Hannibal asked unkindly.</p><p>“You’re too late.” </p><p>With a tug of his wrist Hannibal opened the doctor’s jugular. For a moment, blood was all he could see.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> *** </p>
</div>Will’s body sank into the hospital bed, pleading with him to go back to sleep. Will couldn’t. He wanted-needed-hated Hannibal so intently that it got him sitting up, even standing, pacing back and forth in the tiny space he had. Wrong  decision? Who was Hannibal, who had presented the options in the first place, to tell him which was the wrong decision.<p>Will, tired of Alana telling him what to do and not intent to start the same vein of relationship with someone new, would make his own decisions. To the best of his ability, and always with at least half of his mind screaming that he’d made the wrong call, he’d press on. Finally, Will would do what he wanted. </p><p>Luckily, the hardest part of this decision making process was over; he knew what choice he was going to make. Will opened the unlocked drawers in his patient room, looking for a change of clothes and finding nothing but extra gauze and an unopened box of blue latex gloves. If there was a future where Will wished he’d stalked up on items like that before leaving, Will hoped he wouldn’t get the chance to live through it. </p><p>He settled for putting a second hospital gown on backwards like a housecoat. Worst case scenario he’d walk back to his dorm like that and get changed there. He was sure it wouldn’t have been the most embarrassing thing he’d done. </p><p>The hospital halls, for the most part, were empty. Around every corner Will looked first for Hannibal and secondly to avoid anyone who might tell him to get back to his room until he was properly discharged. </p><p>One floor down, Will was delighted to find a large bin labeled as the lost and found between the entrances to bathrooms. The pickings were thin, and unfortunately didn’t include any plain t-shirts or flannels. Will, bent over the side of the bin and scraping his fingers against the bottom, tugged out a knit sweater and two pairs of jeans which looked about his size. He ducked into one of the bathrooms to get changed. </p><p>The better pair of jeans were still baggy and thread-bare. The sweater’s arms hung down to his palms and the bulky, uneven knit job made him think it had been handmade by an amateur. He badly wished for a belt. Any outfit, he supposed, was better than hospital gowns. He threw his discarded clothes into the bin and continued through the hospital with a new confidence, glad to be less obviously a patient. </p><p>Losing hope of finding Hannibal, who had had more than enough time to leave the hospital and be any number of other places, Will stopped to sign himself out at the help desk. He knew where Hannibal’s dorm was. He could wait for him there, corner him into talking.</p><p>“Will Graham,” repeated the secretary after Will had introduced himself. “Someone else was asking after your doctor just about ten minutes ago.” </p><p>Will’s heart leapt. “Was he about my age, dirty blond hair?” </p><p> “He said he was your classmate. Do you know him?” </p><p>“I’ve been trying to find him." Will pointed with his good arm in the way he'd been travelling. "Did he go this way?” Filled with anxious energy, he took two preemptive steps in that direction. </p><p>“Before you go!” The secretary called Will back, and he impatiently tapped his fingers on her counter as he waited. “Take this with you. It’s your pain medication, as well as the pills to help with your encephalitis. I believe your doctor explained the dosages?” </p><p>“Yes,” Will lied. He took the material bag from her and clenched it in his hand as he followed her directions to find Hannibal. He didn’t know what <i> encephalitis </i> was, nor why he had to take pills for it, and yet that was the farthest thing from his mind. </p><p>His whole being vibrated with dark excitement at seeing Hannibal again. At claiming him, or agreeing to be claimed, no matter the consequences. He felt alive. For so long Will had expected to be alone his whole life. He was frightened by the lengths he knew he’d go to have someone at his side. </p><p>He turned a corner into a windowless hallway where all the doors were closed. Determination surged in his stomach. Hannibal stood right in front of him. </p><p>Will felt he'd seen the gates of heaven and found them wanting. Hannibal wasn’t salvation. He was the exact opposite; he was the invitation to hell, the fall down to sin, with dark blood on his hands and smeared across his chest, soiling his double breasted coat. His eyes were lit from within by hellfire itself. </p><p>Will realized, in that moment, that heaven wasn’t worth the way that his body reacted when he was with Hannibal. The lightness inside of the parts of him where before there had only been voids. The flutter of his heart. If this was love, it was new to Will. New and powerful and all-consuming. </p><p>Faith couldn’t buy you anything that would so much as hold a flame to this. </p><p>“Hannibal,” Will said, and hoped that in the single word he had presented to Hannibal all that was coming alive inside of him. </p><p>“You’re sick, Will.” </p><p>Will ached to touch Hannibal, and to share with him the burden of blood on his hands. He remembered the pills in his bag. “The encephalitis.” </p><p>“Did he tell how long you’ve been sick?” </p><p>“No, I d—”</p><p>“Such a long time, Will. And I’ve known.” Hannibal stepped close enough to Will that in one brush of his hand he could strike him. Will shivered in anticipation. “I’ve known this whole time, Will.” </p><p>“...So?” Will mumbled. He couldn’t break their eye contact. Wouldn’t dare think to. </p><p>“I’ve known and I’ve let it continue. I watched you get sicker and I would have let you get sicker still. You could have died under my watch and I would have felt no remorse.” </p><p>“I don’t believe you.” </p><p>“That I’ve known?”</p><p>“That you would have let me die.” Hannibal didn’t reach for Will, so Will reached for Hannibal. He touched his shoulder, the connection like warm, running water. “That you wouldn’t have felt it.” </p><p>“I don’t care about you, Will.” Hannibal’s words came through his gritted teeth.  </p><p>“Tell me the truth.” </p><p>“I don’t care about you.” </p><p>“Tell me—”</p><p>“I don’t—”</p><p>Will pulled Hannibal closer, until their noses were brushing and his good arm had wound all the way around Hannibal’s back. </p><p>“Tell me you don’t feel anything for me, Hannibal, and I’ll go.” </p><p>“If I did love you, I would hate myself for it.”</p><p>Will stumbled backwards quickly like Hannibal had burned him. Hannibal, seemingly unmoved, brushed his shoulder. As if Will had dirtied it.</p><p>“Am I so repellent?” Will whispered sharply. </p><p>“You push people away, Will. You can only push so many times before people stop coming back. No one will ever love you and not come to regret it.” </p><p>“Fuck you,” Will said, Hannibal’s words cutting straight to his heart. “Fuck you and whatever you think you are.” </p><p>Will had walked out of the hospital before he fully realized that his legs were moving. His bandaged arm swung awkwardly and slowed his pace, but he couldn’t feel the pain. Hopefully there would be enough pain meds in the case he’d grabbed, for when the heavy stuff wore off. </p><p>He’d unlocked his car and taken the driver’s seat before he realized that his injury would make it difficult to drive. His head still pounded, and he imagined that the amount of drugs he had coursing through his body would bar him from operating heavy machinery, anyways. </p><p>But he had to leave. Not just the school, the state. The country. If he could, the planet. He had to get as far away from Hannibal and anything to do with him and never come back. He took his wallet from the glove box and a forgotten hoodie from the back seat and went to the bus stop, managing just enough change to get on.</p><p>He had no idea where the bus would go. He hadn’t bothered to check its number. No matter where the final destination, it would go down the hill, then it would go through to some city and hopefully get him close enough to a plane or a train that he could blow his saving on getting the fuck away. </p><p>Alana’s voice rung in his ears, <i>You’re not alone, you know? There are people who care for you. Don’t go to Hannibal just because you think he’s your only option.<i> That wasn’t why he was leaving. It wouldn’t matter how many people cared for him enough to drag him away; when it came down to it, they wouldn’t be strong enough. Will had chosen Hannibal, and despite the fact that Hannibal obviously didn’t care either way, he would choose Hannibal again. </i></i></p><p>
  <i>
    <i>It wasn’t really a conscious decision. Hannibal matched Will stride for stride, in his crazy and in his madness and even in his loneliness. There wasn’t a piece of Will that couldn’t be matched by a piece of Hannibal. He was prepared to burn his life to the ground, if only he could create a fire big enough to draw Hannibal to him. There was no rhyme or reason to any of it. All that Will knew for certain was that in choosing Hannibal he was choosing himself. In loving Hannibal, he could love himself. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>But he couldn’t allow himself to choose Hannibal, and without any other way to stop himself, Will’s only option was to put as much space between them as possible. </i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He sat on his bus seat sideways, allowing his head to rest against the window. It was midday, and the bus was nearly empty. The only other passenger was a woman wearing so many layers Will had thought at first glance that she was a stack of clothes. He stretched one leg out on the seat in front of him, and bent his other knee up towards him, as a sort of table for his bandaged elbow. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Will used the time on the bus to look through the pills. A small cardboard box labeled as paracetamol held three trays of pills, ready to be popped out of their metallic casings. Thirty pills in total. With some luck, and some accepting of pain, he hoped they’d be good enough to last him until he didn’t need pain meds anymore. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The only other container on the bag was a glass bottle, the instructions for use printed on the wrapper. These pills were, according to the bottle, cytovene. He could only assume they would treat his encephalitis. Will opened the bottle and shook a single pill onto his hand; the pill was larger than any medication he’d ever seen, and a chalky green colour, with a short line of letters and numbers indented into its center. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He returned the pill into its bottle — he’d wait for water to try and swallow one of those. </i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Would Hannibal want him to take the pills? He’d known Will was sick, and hadn’t done anything to have him cured. Surely, there was some reason for that. </i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Will placed the bottle and the little box back into the bag. As he tried to force the bag to fit into his pocket, Will undid its clasp and a long strap fell away from it. He’d taken the pills from the hospital in a little fanny pack. Will chuckled at the absurdity of running away from your life and bringing with you, as your only possession, someone else’s unfashionable bag. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He moved the pills into his pockets individually, careful of the glass bottle. The now empty fanny pack he buckled to the back of his seat with no intention to take it with him when he left. A part of him imagined Hannibal coming after him, and using it as a marker.  </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Hours had passed by the time Will got off the bus, and only then because the bus driver was shutting down for the day. He followed the signs towards the airport, walking alongside the highway. Each time a motorbike flew past him, Will thought of Hannibal. He nearly regretted leaving. </i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>If he had stayed, he reminded himself, he still wouldn’t have Hannibal. He’d made it very clear that he hadn’t wanted Will. Painfully clear. </i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Nearly… overly clear. Hannibal wasn’t inclined to show any more emotion than was strictly necessary to pass as human. If he had been acting… Why? Maybe… Will stopped himself.  Hannibal didn’t want him and it didn’t matter because Will had better things to do than follow after him. </i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>But Will couldn’t shake the idea that Hannibal hadn’t been telling the truth. He bought a last minute boarding pass for pennies on the dime, and was passed quickly though security. Even as he boarded the plane — destination somewhere, anywhere else — the seeds of doubt grew inside of him. In every different way he looked at it, Hannibal’s response made less and less sense. </i>
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</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Will had convinced himself that Hannibal had been lying before the plane took off. What Hannibal could have really wanted to say, however, continued to elude him.</i>
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</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Where do you think Will is going? </p><p>Any opinions? Likes or dislikes? A single emoji to capture your thoughts? Let me know! &lt;3 Thank you for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Roses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hannibal contemplates the humanity of an inanimate object. Will makes a connection in a new city. I may have snuck a few too many metaphors into one chapter.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>2.4</b>
  </p>
</div>Ice cold water hit Hannibal’s hands and fanned across his skin. The doctor’s blood, which had dried, began to crack and slowly fade as it gave way to the water. He scrubbed his palms together, took a dollop of dish soap and rubbed it between his fingers. His gloves, discarded and thrown clandestinely into the medical waste bin, had only lasted him through the murder.<p>His kitchen felt too familiar, too barren to be the proper landscape for his bloodied hands. Had he taken the effort to turn the tap now towards the right, he could have heated the water. Hot enough to scald him, hot enough to wash the blood and incriminating DNA off of him much faster. He let the cold water run. He thought of Will’s body, pushed from the cliff, floating in rushing water just as cold. Hannibal’s grasp around his shoulders and hips, bringing him back to life. Pushing him towards death but pulling him back. The water felt the same now as it had then. </p><p>He took a shower as well. He let that water heat up. He left the bathroom fan off, and the steam billowed all around him; the mirror became opaque with fog, and the glass walls of the shower ran wet with droplets. His towel, when he’d finished showering and pulled it around his waist, hadn’t managed to escape the humidity, either. The hot shower had been to relax his muscles, sore and strained from carrying the doctor’s body from the place of his murder to Hannibal’s claimed hide away: that abandoned, mysterious room in the basement floor of the English building. </p><p>Hannibal rolled his shoulder, the one which had bore the majority of the man’s weight, back and forth. It had loosened, but still pulled uncomfortably in certain positions. He’d need to wait and see if it’d be sore in the morning. </p><p>The mirror presented Hannibal with a distorted, blurred outline of himself. Like this, without the face that animated and charmed and lied for him, Hannibal couldn’t look past his humanity. It was evident in the subtle line of his shoulders, his wet, upturned hair, the shadow of his hands on the yellowing counter.</p><p>A painting, hung crooked above the towel rack, showed up in the mirror as a floating grey knob. To take the focus off of his reflection, Hannibal turned and looked closely. He checked that the steam hadn’t distorted the canvas. He dried one hand on the towel around his waist, and used that hand to pluck the painting from the wall. It had been hung on a nail, half in and half out of the wall. No signature graced on the artwork and no date had been etched into the wood backing. </p><p>Nameless. Unclaimed. And yet, it too possessed humanity. Its vitality was locked in the long brush strokes, textured across the canvas. Painted by an untrained hand. Filled with unmeasurable passion. The picture was simple, a hillside thick with waving grass. The sky had been coloured in subdued shades of blue, fading to white near the top and as dark as cornflowers where it hit the horizon. A figure on the hill held her dress down against a gust of wind. Her head, veiled by a wide-brimmed hat, looked towards a second figure on the highest point of the hill. Her body had been painted in few brush strokes, presenting her with an anxious, moving state.</p><p>The second figure had been painted in shades of green and gold, blending into the hillside. As a contrast to his counterpart, this figure had been painted carefully, painstakingly. His lines were stiff and uncompromising, as if he’d been still for a considerable amount of time and had no intentions of moving anytime soon. As if he could, at any point, be claimed by the land, dragged into the tall grass and reformed as the ground underneath it. As if, should he be so lucky, he could melt completely from this life. </p><p><i> Why hasn’t he yet?</i>  Will’s voice, whispering in Hannibal’s ear. Hannibal's shoulders at once tensed and relaxed as he listened. <i>If given the opportunity to so simply disappear, wouldn’t anybody leave? </i> </p><p>Hannibal didn't turn to look for Will, or to see his refection in the mirror. He knew he wouldn't find it. “She is holding him here. His tether,” he answered aloud, eyes drifting once more to the first figure. “She calls for him, and asks him to stay, so he does.” </p><p>Will’s finger drew over Hannibal’s shoulder, down his back. Hannibal reached to meet his hand and found a drip of water. He wiped it away, wiped away its track. He heard Will’s voice again, a low whisper in his ear. <i> Why does she ask him to stay? </i> </p><p>“He understands her. When she looks to destroy herself, he calls her back. She must do the same for him.” Hannibal touched the figure atop the hill gently, and returned the painting to his wall. He’d never taken this close a look at it. If he’d been asked to describe it before, he would have described a completely different painting. </p><p><i> Did I not understand you well enough?</i> Will’s voice could have been the wind outside, or the dripping water as the shower emptied. It sounded like church bells.  </p><p>Hannibal opened a drawer, took out his comb. His hair caught in the comb’s teeth. He pulled it hard enough to rip out strands of hair, and dropped the comb back into the drawer after only one stroke. He wet his fingers under the tap and used them to push his hair off of his face instead. His blurred reflection looked on, alone. </p><p><i> You didn’t ask me to stay. </i> </p><p>Hannibal slammed the drawer shut and turned to face the painting, reading it as if it were Will’s face. “You aren’t fading into the earth, Will, and I am not your passioned lover looking on. You do not need a tether because you are not at risk of flying away.” </p><p>Will didn’t answer. Had never spoken in the first place. Hannibal finished drying himself. When he opened the bathroom door to leave, he was hit by freezing, dry air that seemed to go straight to his brain, steadying him and ridding him of Will’s ghost. He got dressed without incident and considered the ordeal over with.</p><p>Hannibal brought Will’s necklace into the kitchen. He hung it by the chain onto a corner of the window, the pendant sliding down to the center and shaping the chain into a ‘V’. It caught fragments of the light and shone like dust in a sun ray. Hannibal moved smoothly through the kitchen, fetching a cast iron pan from the lowest cabinet and turning on a burner. He oiled the pan, letting it heat as he chopped onions and mushrooms. Will watched him handle the heavy chef’s knife leerily. </p><p>No, not Will. Will’s necklace. </p><p>Hannibal added the vegetables to the pan and then wondered if Will liked cooked pepper or zucchini better and then told himself that it didn’t matter what Will would want. He rinsed off a pepper under the tap and sat it on his cutting board. He took the meat out of the fridge and started it in its own pan. He gathered the spices for his sauce. </p><p>It took Hannibal the whole time of measuring out his spices to realize that the angered thumping noise was someone knocking on his door. He turned his pan to a simmer and wiped his hands on a cloth napkin. He opened the door jauntily. </p><p>“Can I help you?” He asked the question in a way that did not allude to his being rudely interrupted while cooking. </p><p>The person on the other side of the door didn’t appear to be much older than Hannibal, despite what his rigid posture and no-nonsense expression would suggest. He wore a jacket with the university’s emblem. “Mr. Hannibal Lecter?” </p><p>Hannibal nodded. The man spoke again. “My name is Jack Crawford and I’m with the Student Association for Safety and Justice. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”</p><p>“Might I ask why I am being called upon at this hour?”</p><p>“Not to worry, Mr. Lecter.” He peered down at his phone. “This won’t take long. Is it correct that you were in the Memorial Hospital this morning?” </p><p>“I was visiting my dear friend Will. He’s been badly hurt.” </p><p>“Do you remember when you left the hospital?” </p><p>“I’m afraid I didn’t look at the time. I did leave just after a conversation with Will. Perhaps he would recall the exact hour.”</p><p>“What else can you tell me about your conversation?”</p><p>Hannibal rubbed his thumb over the door handle. “I would rather not disclose our private conversations without Will’s permission.” </p><p>“We are running out of options, Mr. Lecter.” Jack slid his foot forwards imposingly. He crossed his arms over his chest.</p><p>“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” </p><p>The scent of charred vegetables wafted from the kitchen. Hannibal’s still-damp hair settled over his forehead. </p><p>“Mr. Graham’s roommate contacted security earlier today when Will failed to return to his dorm after checking out of the hospital.” Jack’s face changed, the edges softening. “Effective 4:00 pm today, Mr. Graham has been reported as a missing person.”</p><p>The tether had fallen off. Will had been swallowed by the earth, removed from this burdened existence. </p><p>Hannibal left Jack and the burnt dinner and stalked into the night.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> *** </p>
</div>Late-August heat enveloped Will as he exited the airport. He didn’t remember the flight. At some point, he thought, someone’s luggage had fallen from the overhead compartment and nearly hit his injured arm. If he searched the extent of his memory, he found little plastic cups, their bottoms stained with wine. Compensation.<p>His head pounded, stuffy from the altitude and thick from the booze. He stepped ruggedly across the cement landing, dodging or being dodged by other pedestrians with rolling suitcases. He nearly ran into a very oddly shaped tree, a trunk like the ever-reaching neck of a giraffe. Will followed the tree upwards with his gaze until he'd found its end. Spiky green leaves akin to feather dusters blew in a breeze that Will couldn’t feel. </p><p>Astounded, Will took his boarding pass from his pocket and unwrinkled it. His destination — now his current location — was there to read in bolded lettering. LAX. Los Angeles. The palm tree danced above him. His knit sweater scratched against his skin, growing hotter by the second. </p><p>Will had never been so far from home. </p><p>A shuttle bus parked against the walkway made last calls. A woman, not much older than Will, was attempting to gather two toddlers and two suitcases all together. The doors into the airport opened and closed behind her as other people walked by her, and each time they did a gust of wind threw the woman’s skirt forwards and backwards. One of the children clung to her leg. The other sat on the ground, short legs straight ahead of him. </p><p>Will tried to read her lips as they moved in speech. The traffic, both vehicular and human, was too much for him to hear her across the walkway. She took the suitcase handle in one hand and hoisted the smaller child onto her hip with the other. The family began to rush towards the parking lot. Will realized a second too late that they were trying to reach the shuttle bus. They weren’t going to make it in time. Suddenly, it was the most important thing in the world that he helped them get on the bus. </p><p>The bottle of pills in Will’s pocket rattled as he ran from the palm tree to the shuttle bus. He arrived long before she did. He’d been much closer to it to start with, and when he looked back the woman had had to stop once more, to help the walking child up from a spill onto the ground. </p><p>“You have to wait,” Will said, breathily, to the shuttle driver. </p><p>“It’s five dollars fare, bud.” The driver said. He looked Will up and down and decided him invalid in his baggy jeans and long-unwashed hair, and started to shut the door. </p><p>“No, not for me.” Will braced his good hang against the side of the shuttle.”Wait for them, sir, please. Wait a minute.” </p><p>“Next shuttle arrives in half an hour.” The driver, unimpressed, tried once more to close the door on Will’s face. By then, it didn’t matter. Will had stalled for long enough. The woman, her braided hair coming loose around her face, guided first her children and then her suitcases onto the shuttle. The driver took the suitcases and walked farther into the bus, and in the moment of calm the woman put her hand on Will’s shoulder. </p><p>“You’ve helped more than you could even know,” she said, in a light way that suggested she and Will were long acquainted friends. “We’re on the way to my sister’s wedding. Thanks to you, we’ll arrive in time to stop it.” She laughed, then, and Will, caught off guard, laughed as well. “Terrible man she’s engaged to. He won’t do her a thing good.” </p><p>The bus driver returned and the woman paid him with two twenties. She told him to keep the change, for his trouble. She pulled her skirt upwards from the knee to step up onto the single stair. Will moved a few feet backwards, preparing for the shuttle bus to drive away. He realized belatedly that her skirt, rich purple and too heavy to be comfortable in the heat, must be her outfit for the wedding she planned to crash. He wondered if crashing weddings was a common occurrence in California. </p><p>The woman looked back at him over her shoulder. “Well?” </p><p>“Huh?” Will answered eloquently, tongue stuck in his mouth. </p><p>“Get on, aren't you?” </p><p>Will shook his head. “No, I’m-” He remembered too late that he didn’t have any plans to explain. </p><p>“Come on, then.” The woman reached down to hook her fingers around Will’s good elbow and helped him forward. She produced five dollars more, which she tucked under the steering wheel for the driver to see. Will followed her to the back of the shuttle bus, where her children had settled onto a single chair beside the window. </p><p>The woman unattached herself from him and attended to her children. Will took a seat on the opposite bench. The shuttle bus was shorter than the city bus he’d taken from his university, and all of the seats were facing the front in even rows like a school bus. The interior was all greys, boring to look at and more boring to think about. The entertainment was the other people inside the bus. </p><p>Two rows ahead, a pair of elderly women with feathery, pure-white hair bowed their heads towards each other, whispering intently. One of the women kissed the other on her cheek. They went back to whispering. In the middle of the bus, a group of tourists wore matching home-made t-shirts. They spoke loudly in a language Will couldn’t name. They pointed outside the windows and took pictures, uncaring that the bus was still parked in front of the airport. </p><p>Even the bus driver was something of a marvel to Will. He wore shorts that looked like swim trunks and his shirt was unbuttoned to the center of his chest. He turned the radio on before departing, filling the shuttle bus with pop music. The song sounded like something that should be familiar but wasn’t. Will’s window hung open half way; as the bus merged into traffic and gathered speed, warm, sweet smelling air began to billow around his head. </p><p>“My name is Cait.” The woman sat herself down next to him, her purse swinging and tapping against his side. “What’s yours?” </p><p>“Will.” Caught against the side of the bus, no easy escape, Will felt the ability to have a friendly conversation leave him. He let his eyes linger on his lap. </p><p>“What brings you to California, Will?” Cait asked, apparently oblivious to his drawing in on himself. </p><p>“Just ended up here.” </p><p>“Don’t we all.” She grinned widely at him. Her eyes threatened to dip into the large, dark circles underneath them. “Do you know anything about flowers?” </p><p>The abrupt change in conversation caught him off guard. “In what context?” </p><p>“For her wedding, my sister, Costa, wanted dahlias, all different colours. She claimed they reminded her of her old ballet costumes.” </p><p>Will nodded along dutifully, confused as he was. Which part of a flower could possibly be said to resemble a ballet costume? </p><p>“Her fiance, Issac, disagreed,” Cait continued. “He wanted something more traditional, something classier. He ordered them one hundred red roses.” She turned her gaze from where it had drifted to the seat in front of her, to see Will’s reaction. “One hundred roses with the thorns still on.” </p><p>“But won’t that be dangerous, the thorns?” Will thought of the blackberry bushes he’d picked from as a kid, and his ankles and wrists all scratched to hell. His father yelling at him for not wearing boots and gloves. For getting blood in with the berries. </p><p>Cait turned in her seat, torso square to Will. She put a hand on both of his shoulders, the one on his injured side pointedly delicate. “I thought so too. And I told her that she’d picked a crazy one. I told her to send the roses back. She refused. All I could get her to do was ask him why.” </p><p>Will’s voice caught in his throat. “Why did he keep the thorns on?” </p><p>“He sees the world as beauty and pain, and beauty and pain as one. Listen, don’t start thinking I believe this. This is what he said. He said that beauty without pain is pointless, just as love would be nothing without loneliness, and truth would hold no meaning if not for lies. Nonsense, I know.” </p><p>But Will hadn’t thought it to be nonsensical. His cheeks had gone cold, his mind sober. He couldn’t help but hear each new and twisted line she said in Hannibal’s voice. </p><p>“Continue. Please. What did he say about the thorns?” He hungered for more. A starved, deprived creature. </p><p>Cait took her hands off of him to clasp them together against her chest. She looked down her nose as if drawing the words from her memory.  “Dahlias, and all other flowers that exist only to be beautiful, are lifeless and pointless. They’re a child’s toy. A figment of the imagination. A rose is the exception.” She grimaced, and the spell was broken. “Here’s the truly horrid part: Issac wanted Costa to walk down the aisle holding a bouquet of the roses. She asked him if the thorns wouldn’t cut her hands and make her bleed -” </p><p>“That’s the point. The blood will make the roses more beautiful.” </p><p>Cait stood up into the aisle between the seats. Her eyebrows drew together in disbelief. “Issac?” </p><p>“No.” Will looked out the window. They drove parallel to a sandy beach. He’d never seen anything so flat and long as the sand and the ocean. “You’ve just been unlucky enough to have had this conversation with someone who's been conditioned in the same way.” Hannibal was conditioned, either from the way he’d been raised or just from who he was as a person. Will could see both sides. He couldn’t blame Hannibal entirely for his own tendency towards the darker side — it had to have been inside of him all along. </p><p>Will disembarked the shuttle bus on its next stop. Cait had left him to sit beside her children, and seemed determined to block him from their view entirely. He wished to let her relax before her sister’s wedding.</p><p>At his first step off of the bus, he raced towards the ocean, not looking for traffic before crossing the road. A chorus of complaints and car horns followed him only until his feet hit the sand. He kicked off his shoes. He removed the pill bottles and his wallet from his pockets. He pulled the lumpy sweater off, but kept the sling. He started to roll his jeans up to his knees, but quickly forwent his dignity and just took them off. He went, in his boxers, to the ocean’s edge. </p><p>He allowed the water to take him. Perhaps, if he stayed under for long enough, he could drown the part of himself that was holding on to Hannibal.</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Thieves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In this chapter dedicated entirely to Will, connections are made and truths discovered.</p>
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<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>2.5</b>
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</div>The sun sets in the west. Maybe that was why the sky was glowing a brilliant gold, like all the energy in the world was concentrating into one skyline. Will’s hometown had played a dirty trick on him, making him believe sunsets like this were only seen in movies. He looked to the sky only for seconds at a time. Any longer, and he may convince himself that he couldn't possibly be alive while witnessing such a display. Not possibly real life.<p>He hadn’t felt like the same person since he’d gotten on the bus back at school. The old Will only thought about running away — just a daydream, something to let him escape the real world for a precious few seconds. He wasn’t sure what part of him had flipped over to create the Will who’d landed in LA without a care on his mind. Colours were sharper. The air was sweeter. He could walk lighter without the weight of real-life responsibility on his shoulders. </p><p>Maybe those families who sold their houses, their cars, all of their possessions and traveled the world, really had their lives figured out. Everyone had always told him to stick to a path, university, job, house, retire. Marriage. Save money. Don’t become like your father, he’d told himself. Don’t scramble to pay for rent and groceries. </p><p>Had Hannibal ever thought of running away? Maybe he’d run already. Maybe the Hannibal that Will knew, with his accent and eccentricities, was the version of Hannibal that had already broken free of the life set out for him. </p><p>It was Will’s turn to break away. And to hope that, now that he’d found what he’d been lacking, Hannibal would want him. </p><p>He rocked his shoulders into the sand, feeling pleasantly like a worm.  Hours before, when he’d finally dragged himself from the warm waves, he’d been clean and rejuvenated like a kid on Christmas. He’d walked only far enough to reach the dry sand before throwing himself onto it. Lying down, the sand had stuck to his wet skin, encasing him and dirtying him once more. The simplest solution had been to not get up again. </p><p>Now, Will flipped onto his side. His good arm stung with pins and needles. Behind him, if he craned his neck, he caught sight of the city, outlines of buildings fading away as lights turned on. The sunset had nearly run its course. He stood, brushing as much sand as he could from his back and his legs. At one point someone had given him a towel. Will, with some difficulty, pulled on his jeans and restocked his pockets with his pills and his wallet before he lost them in the sand. He left the lumpy sweater behind, feeling confident with the towel wrapped around his shoulders. </p><p>The dark of this busy Californian boulevard wasn’t the same as the dark where Will had grown up. There was no fear of wild animals or vanishing into the unknown; the scariest thing here was the sheer amount of people, spanning the sidewalk like an overfull stream. Each food vendor had a pile of people waiting to order; each storefront rang with conversations and rattled with coin purses. The crash of waves hitting the beach gave a peaceful, relaxed beat to the evening. </p><p>Will crossed the road, good arm clutching the towel to his chest. He passed a tourist shop selling key-chains and magnets. He purchased a t-shirt for $2.50, and threw the towel into a trash can as he walked out of the shop. The t-shirt, less than flattering and with an obnoxious slogan across the front, was still more comfortable than the sweater had been. He stepped into a quiet alleyway to pull the shirt on, adjusting his sling again afterwards. </p><p>He’d heavily favoured his bad arm while floating around in the ocean, trying to keep it as dry and stable as possible. Even with his best efforts, the unpredictable waves and pure bliss of swimming in an ocean had made it impossible to save his injury entirely. Swimming at all was most likely strictly against medical advice, anyways. Not that Will had stayed in that bed long enough to hear that advice. </p><p>His shoulder stung as he pulled the sling back into place, and continued to ache. He figured that it couldn’t hurt to take one of his pain meds. He leaned his hip against the side of the alley — the wall belonging to an upscale clothing store, if he remembered correctly from when he’d walked by the front of it — and took the pill box from his jeans pocket. </p><p>A shadow emerged from the other side of the alleyway. A woman, judging from her silhouette. She crossed to Will’s side of the alley, paused to shake her hair from its ponytail. When she walked towards him, it was a dance-like movement, fluid and swaying. Her hips led her legs forwards. The features of her face weren’t visible until she’d come as close as one stride away from him. </p><p>“Anything good?” She said, voice low. She had a sharp face, cheekbones made to look even deeper in the half-lit night. Her eyes watched him with cool calculation. <i> Hannibal, </i> Will’s brain supplied unhelpfully. He had to admit there was a likeness, not just in the features but something, too, in how they both watched him like they were waiting for him to give them something. </p><p>“Excuse me?” Will offered.</p><p>She took the pill box from his hand. He didn’t even think to stop her. “Para - ceta - mol?” She read from the label.</p><p>“Pain meds.” </p><p>“Any good?” </p><p>“I don’t— I haven’t taken any yet.” </p><p>The woman — girl, really, although she was older than Will — popped one of the paracetamol tablets out of its casing and pressed it, with two fingers, to her tongue. She freed a second tablet and held it towards Will. </p><p>Will took the pill and swallowed it dry. He wished he had water to wet his throat. He wished the stranger would leave. Would she leave if he told her she could take one row of the pills? </p><p>“The... they’re for my arm,”  he nodded his chin towards the sling. “The meds.” </p><p>“Oh, honey, they’re good for many things.” </p><p>He frowned. She disappeared the box of pills onto her person, hidden somewhere in the layers of her dark clothes. They were very tight fitting, and Will wasn’t sure how they’d managed to conceal the box. The bizarre nature of women’s clothing, Alana would have said. His pills, though. She’d stolen his pills. </p><p>“I fractured my scapula,” Will said, because what kind of a monster would steal pain meds from someone with a broken bone? </p><p>She’d taken her phone out and was busying herself responding to a text. The white light from her phone screen illuminated her makeuped eyes. She resembled a movie star, although Will couldn’t remember which one. </p><p>“That’s a shame, love,” She muttered noncommittally.</p><p>“So I…” Will bit back a laugh. He had a habit of laughing at inappropriate times. “I need my pain meds back.” </p><p>The thief looked up from her phone, tilted her head sideways and smiled with her teeth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, hun. Sorry.” She did a ditsy little curtsy, spreading her arms by her legs as she had no skirt to hold on to, and flipped her hair back into its ponytail. “Catch up later, okay?” </p><p>“Hey!” Will scrambled to follow after her. She moved expertly down the alleyway, stepping around the potholes and cracked concrete. Will stumbled, eyes searching in the dim light, jeans restricting his steps. </p><p>They ran the length of the alleyway. He caught up to her on the next main road, spotting her by her outfit of full-length black pants and dark denim jacket. She stood out like a black sheep in the swarm of pastel shorts and crop tops. </p><p>She bent over a motorbike, unlocking the helmet from its handlebars. “Mousey, you came!” </p><p>Will looked side to side for the person she was referring to, but finding no one realized she’d meant him. “Will,” he said, if only to save himself from any more nicknames. “And I really would like my pills back.” </p><p>“Okay.” She swung a leg over the bike. “On one condition.” </p><p>Will was jumbled from behind by pedestrians. His toes slid over the lip of the sidewalk. He waited for her condition.</p><p>“Come with me.” </p><p>That made no sense. “I just-” </p><p>“You want these back, right?” She shook the box of pills, which had suddenly manifested back in her hand. Will tried to grab it. She leaned back and had it easily out of his reach. “Get on the bike.” </p><p>If he’d been Will from before, he would have turned and left, pills or no pills. He swung his left leg over to sit behind her. What other choice did he have? With only one good hand to hold on, Will grasped the handle until his fingers turned white. The motorbike hadn’t even been started yet. The thief coaxed Will’s fingers from around the handle and lifted his arm to hold around her waist instead. </p><p>“What’s your name.” Maybe, if Will had her name to hold onto, to turn over in his head, he could stop imagining he was holding Hannibal’s waist instead. On the bike with Hannibal instead. Hannibal hadn’t held Will’s waist, all that time ago when he’d let Will drive them home. Why hadn’t Hannibal held his waist? </p><p>“Patra.” She revved the motorcycle, and with a movement as graceful as her walk, pulled them onto the road. Will’s one arm clenched tightly around her, tense and stressful as his only security of not flying right off into traffic. His body leaned forwards against hers until her hair was against his face, its floral smell like red wine. </p><p>She weaved them in and out of the cars, following the road along the beach. As they drew farther from town, the traffic became thinner and the maximum speed faster. The sky opened up above them, presenting a brilliant moon and constellations of stars. Will looked up at it for only as long as his neck would allow, but wished he could watch it forever; the rest of the world fell away when he looked at the stars for long enough. </p><p>The city lights moved farther and farther into the distance until they, too, looked like a constellation of stars. The blanket of night enveloped Will, now at once entirely reminiscent of the dark nights from his childhood. The wind off of the motorbike rattled his clothes against his skin and pushed his eyes nearly closed; if it had been just a little softer, and a little cooler, it could have been the air off of lake water. </p><p>For a short amount of time when Will had been about fifteen, his dad had owned a speedboat. He’d meant it, Will had always assumed, as a fishing boat. They’d hardly used it to fish. On the water just before sunset, him from a day of school and his father his work, they’d start up the little motor and putter towards the center of the lake. The efforts of the motor and the motion of the water was all there was to hear. Neither one of them talked unless they had to. </p><p>He remembered those nights now through a dreamlike haze. When, if not in a dream, would the stars shine from the wide open sky onto calm, black water and reflect like tangible balls of light? And only then, in these not-quite-dreams, his relationship with his father had come alight as well. Under the guise of darkness, with no one to witness and nothing pressing to do, they had found an unspoken agreement. In silence, Will had found, there exists more room for unfiltered communication. </p><p>Will wondered if Hannibal would agree to rent a speedboat with him for a night. There had to be a lake somewhere they could drive to. He feared and craved what he’d learn from Hannibal in a dream like that. </p><p>The road turned into a bridge and then a mountain and they were moving vertically. Will turned his head to look over his shoulder and saw the ocean falling away past a cliffside of black rock. He spread his fingers out over Patra’s ribs with the same force as he’d held onto the handle. He wondered, absently, if he might restrain her breathing. </p><p>They were the only ones on the road, the only people crazy enough to be attempting this drive in the dark. Up and up and up, surrounded by thin air and the tireless roar of her motorcycle. Patra didn’t once falter or slow down for a turn, as if it were a suicide mission. If Will focused, with his head close to hers, he could just hear the distant call of a song through her lips. She was singing, had been since they’d started the climb, something melodic and excited, yet bittersweet. A good song to die to. </p><p>They stopped and were on the edge of the world. Will fell more than jumped from the motorbike, and walked on unsteady legs to the cliff’s edge. He peered over the side and could see nothing, as if the entire world past that point was just shadow. </p><p>Patra came up behind him and slipped something in Will’s back pocket. </p><p>“You’d leave me here?” Will asked, without turning around.  Some part of Will — some moving, churning part — didn’t want to be alone. </p><p>“I would,” She said without hesitation. </p><p>A gust of wind caught Will against the chest, colder than he’d expected. “You brought me here out of pity.” </p><p>“Who says?” </p><p>She was running, too. From what he didn’t know and didn’t entirely care to find out. As long as the object she’d put in his back pocket was the box of his pain meds, they had no reason to stay together. He thought how he’d never seen her face in the daylight, and how now he never would. She’d be unrecognizable to him after she’d left. He wouldn’t miss her, because he didn’t know her. Maybe he’d miss that she made him think of Hannibal. </p><p>“You should go home,” Will told her. </p><p>“I won’t.” She closed the visor on her helmet. Will heard it click. “No one’s waiting. Who’s waiting for you?” </p><p><i>Hannibal,</i> Will wanted to say. “I don’t know if they’ve noticed I’m gone.” </p><p>“Go back before they notice.” She stepped away from him silently. Will looked over his shoulder as she ascended the motorbike. “It’s better if they don’t have time to forget you.” </p><p>She left in a roar of noise and a blur of motion that Will hardly believed he’d been a part of. It was the pill box that she’d given back to him; Will took it from his pocket and opened it. The top tray of pills was missing. He shook his head, unsurprised, and put it away once more. He considered taking out the bottle of pills for his encephalitis and trying to swallow one down. His lack of water stopped him, as well as his current lack of headache. Some people claimed pharmacists and pills were a large part placebo, just to scam people out of their money. There was no proof the pills would even work. </p><p>He’d tried to use the airport WiFi while the plane was taxiing in to look up encephalitis. He’d read a line about brain swelling and headaches and had, shocked, quickly shut off his phone. What if Hannibal knew something the doctors didn’t, and had a reason for keeping Will’s condition from him? </p><p>His entire being was encompassed by the thought of Hannibal, swirling around and around as if he were a moon caught in Hannibal’s orbit. Will hated it. He’d ceased being his own person, reduced only to someone who wanted Hannibal. If they were together, in proximity to each other, Will felt he’d have no power to escape it. He couldn’t live like this, a prisoner in his own mind. Ever emotion spiked with interest towards Hannibal. Every new thought bounced first off of the image of him. </p><p>Slowly, the light of Hannibal was blotted out by a cool, resentful hatred. Maybe it was just Will’s fisted hands against his thighs. He turned back towards the cliff’s edge, and thought desperately of how Hannibal would have liked it. On the cliff side, life could so easily be death, and wasn’t Hannibal drawn to death?</p><p>Will faltered. How had he known that? </p><p>He walked to the very edge and sat, expecting his feet to hang freely over the side. Instead, they touched against ground where it looked, in the dark, that there should have been nothing. Slowly and carefully, Will lowered his weight onto his feet. His good arm reached behind him, fingers wrapped around a root of a tree, jutting from the rock. He’d found a ledge in the rockface, and now stood on it. His eyes tried and tried to focus in the night, but could only show him incomprehensible darkness. He could hear, somewhere far beneath him, the movement of the ocean. Past his face, past his body clinging to the rockface, open air spread out forever. </p><p>The wind that hit his face and whipped his clothes had to have first kissed against the waves of the ocean. It tasted of salt and carried with it the suggestion of great unseen depths. Something with a motor shot by on the road behind him, and Will strained to catch a glimpse of it. He half hoped Patra would come back for him. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to run away with her. He could never fall in love with her, as she was both too much and not nearly enough like Hannibal. Just enough to endlessly tempt him, while never satisfying. </p><p>The vehicle on the road hadn’t been Patra. He’d straightened back up in time to see two red tail lights. When he turned back to face once more the abyss, he startled at what he saw, pressing back against the cliffside. A pale face hung right before him. </p><p>It took Will a panicked breath to place the features. He saw a man’s face, hard and weathered. Specks of dark blood speckled his cheeks and neck. He was, Will remembered painfully, the man Will had killed that night in the house with Hannibal. Will brushed his toe to the edge of the thin rock he stood on, feeling for the man’s feet. He found he was still alone. </p><p>The man looked at Will, and Will forced himself to meet his empty eyes. He wanted to apologize. </p><p>“I wasn’t thinking properly, when it happened. I thought you were a monster,” Will said. </p><p>The man didn’t reply. His mouth gaped open, revealing a toothless, tongueless void. </p><p>“Who took your teeth?” Will thought, and then realized he’d said it aloud. </p><p>The man’s eyes rolled to expose the whites, and his head lulled to the side. It splintered at the neck, slipping and slipping until it fell from his body. It fell down, parallel to the cliffside, and Will thought he heard it splash into the ocean. He blinked and the man’s body was back in one piece. </p><p>The specter spoke, voice hollow. “My killer enjoyed killing me.” </p><p>“No, I didn’t.” Will said. He wished he was more sure that he was telling the truth. </p><p>A welt of blood began to spread from the man’s chest, too far to the side to completely pierce his heart. That was the cut Will had made. Will ducked his chin, watching from only the corner of his eye. Surely soon he would fall. The man stayed. The blood from Will’s blow stopped pouring. They both waited, caught against the rockface. Wind continued to hit Will, blowing right through the man’s body. </p><p>A line of red, thin enough to have been drawn with a pen, rippled across the man’s neck. Quickly, it was joined by more and more. Will looked completely at him once more, caught in his surprise. The thin cuts created a tableau, a macabre masterpiece. They continued to appear, some curving, some deeper. They hadn’t been drawn by Will’s hand. </p><p>Finally, as to complete the dance, the man fell. He’d bled and bled and now he fell, disappearing into the abyss. Will waited and listened but could not hear his body hit the water. </p><p>There was only one person who could have — would have — killed the man for Will. Killed him in such an appalling fashion. Will told himself he was appalled. He didn’t want to consider any other possible reaction. </p><p>He felt sick. He lifted himself back up onto solid ground, and put his back against the ground. His head was starting to spin. </p><p>“You could have told me.” He yelled to the constellations above. If Hannibal had killed the man, then they were more alike. Maybe, if he’d known, he would have run away long ago. Probably he would have stayed. Probably, they would be together still, terrible and wicked but together. </p><p>“I wouldn’t have been scared.” Will said. He spread his hands flat on either side of him, against the rocks. “I wouldn’t have been any more scared than you.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>End of Part Two</b>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Trophies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hannibal flexes yet another coffee making skill. Will worries about his fate at the university.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b> 3.1 </b>
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</div>The dark oak desk stood, as always, pristine and empty of clutter. A large book sat open, spotlighted by a reading lamp and so heavy it seemed to dip the desk in the center. Hannibal stroked his fingers over the delicate page. He traced the misshapen veins of the drawn heart, following the pattern of blood flow. He pressed at a corner of the page which had become dogeared, trying to smooth the fold line. The dusty old book’s smell hit him when he fluttered its pages, reminding him of far off places and far off people.<p>If ever he’d been asked what his most important life philosophy was, Hannibal would have agreed with existentialist philosophy and said that he became the best version of himself when he embraced being alone. The reality was that anyone on his side made things complicated. Other people simply could not be trusted. This rule was easy; it had never been a problem before. </p><p>Will was making it a problem. Will had caused problem enough already. </p><p>The windows were closed and the lights turned down so that everything sat low in shadows and secrecy. It was Friday night, and with the last midterms having been written hours ago, the students had resorted to partying. Hannibal ground his teeth together at the cheering as half-sober young adults scrambled through the halls of his building and moved as masses on the grounds outside. He’d never known so many people went to this school. The only solace one could find in a hell such as this was the possibility for anonymity in the commotion. </p><p>If he’d had a person in mind, tonight would have been the ideal night to strike. But he hadn’t planned. And besides, he was still under too close of a watch. Jack seemed to be on a mission to expose someone for the murder of Will’s doctor, and for some damn reason he’d landed his sights on Hannibal. </p><p>Will. Causing problems again. </p><p>Hannibal closed the heavy book with a satisfying thump and stood to return it to the shelf. The legs of his chair ground into the floor and made sounds of protest as they slid backwards. He moved through the rooms as a ghost, light on his feet, seeing in the half-dark. The party noises from outside slammed against the walls like cannon balls. His body ached for sleep, and yet his brain worked and worked, trying to churn through a fog. He’d taken his exams through this strange haze, as well. </p><p>It had crept over him as a thick fog would over a harbor, stilling the boats and hiding the shore. It was too thick to see through, so thick that it seemed to take more effort to move through. It had come, he supposed, about the same time as when Will had left. As when Hannibal had learned that Will had left. </p><p>There had been nothing left to do, that night. After speaking with Jack, Hannibal had gone to the library. He’d found the shelf through which they’d first met, and tried to imagine if he’d do the same again, speaking through the book shelf, returning night after night. He couldn’t imagine he would, with someone else.</p><p>Now at his own bookshelf, Hannibal slid his heavy old medical text back into the bottom row. The books beside it, paper thin by comparison, seemed to tilt towards it. He bent his knees, bringing his face level with the books, and was just choosing his next read when an obnoxious hand knocked on his front door. The noise rattled through his dorm, seeming to hit each and every surface until he was in a whirlpool of noise. </p><p>He stood, his back cracking as it straightened, and pushed back the strands of hair that had fallen over his forehead. The knocking continued, hectic and loud. </p><p>With quick, pointed strides, Hannibal approached his door and let it open only an inch, blocking it with the toe of his shoe. The student at the door smiled lopsidedly at him through the slim crack. They brandished a can of some carbonated drink, it’s foam sloshing about on top of it. The excited conversations from within the building filled the space beyond. </p><p>“We’re having a bet in the common room. Come and place your bets.” The student swung an arm out in beckoning. “Place your bets!” </p><p>Hannibal glared death until the student shrugged and walked away. He closed his door and locked the chain. If he put his back to the door, looking only straight ahead at his kitchen and dining table, he could almost pretend that the rest of the building didn’t exist. </p><p>Pushing a chair into its place against the dining table as he passed, Hannibal moved to the dining room window. On the grounds outside, flocks of students moved between buildings. Each boy with floppy brown hair could have been Will. He was sure that none of them were. They were a different species, down there, taking part in an array of mating rituals and social intricacies that, although he knew how to, Hannibal had never wanted to be a part of. </p><p>He tried to picture himself blending in with the masses, going to his wardrobe now and changing into jeans and a t-shirt, leaving his dorm with a drink in his hand and the hope in his head that he’d find someone to bring back up. Leaving his bed with clean sheets and his lights on auto-low for a reason other than personal preference. </p><p>If he had to, which in this scenario he supposed he did, he’d look for a girl with a brain. It didn’t much matter what she looked like, as long as she didn’t want him too badly and he could forget about her afterwards. He’d wade through the crowds, drink in hand all the while,  watching the girls tripping over themselves while exiting the frat houses and turning up his nose at them. </p><p>Maybe he’d walk until he came to the far field, where the crowds would thin out and the night noises would become audible, no longer chased away by poor music choices and intelligible voices. He’d find his girl sitting in the cool grass, reading an ancient collection of Virginia Woolf’s poetry. She would look over her shoulder at him, and she wouldn’t be scared. She’d want to move towards him.</p><p>As the girl stood from the grass, dropping the book of poems to the ground, she turned into Will. Again and again, Hannibal imagined the scene, and each time, on that dark field with the crickets chirping and the wind blowing through darkening leaves, he was met by Will’s harrowed, accusing face. </p><p>Will. Causing problems again. </p><p>Hannibal, frowning, braced his hands against the window frame. Still below, students rushed about. He hated them. He watched them and was them and was the opposite of them and he hated them. And he hated the part of himself that wished it were so simple for him, too. </p><p>He turned his head away from the window sharply. To the left of it, there was an empty space of pale wall, which had an unfortunate crack expanding through it. They wouldn’t fix the crack, and he didn’t have the tools to fix it himself. He would order something to hang over it in the morning. A Caravaggio would do nicely, or perhaps a Rembrandt. Anything to act as a different sort of window -- one that looked to the world he could comfortably live in. </p><p>As if to showcase just how horrid Hannibal’s reality was, someone new now knocked on his door. It couldn’t be the same person, as this knock was different. It was no less intent, and yet it suggested a patience that the first knock could not have hoped to achieve. </p><p>Hannibal crossed back across his room, hands in his pockets, and when he’d arrived at the door, kicked it once squarely on the bottom panel. Had he been in a more thoughtful state of mind, he never would have thought to use such a childish action. As it were, in that particular moment, he found a smug smile playing at his lips in response to the very straight forward message he was sure he’d sent. </p><p>That would teach the annoyance outside the door to behave themselves. </p><p>The knocking stopped, and Hannibal’s smug smile grew. </p><p>“Really, Hannibal?” </p><p>His smile dropped, and his hands fumbled out of his pockets, racing to pull open the chain and unlock the deadbolt and swing the door wide. He told his heart to slow down, but it hardly listened. It beat in his chest as fast as it had the first time he’d felt someone else's blood on his hands. In the harbor, the rains had started and the fog began to fade. </p><p>“Will,” Hannibal said, hardly masking his relief. “You’ve been reckless, I hear.” </p><p>“I have no idea where you got that idea from.” Will’s eyes slid up and down Hannibal, taking in all too clearly his rumpled clothes and unstyled hair. “I’ve been good, I swear.” He didn’t look Hannibal in the eye until after he’d walked past him and into Hannibal’s dorm. He pulled at his sleeves to remove his outermost piece of clothing — a dark brown overcoat that Hannibal would have remembered seeing before — and threw it over the back of a dining room chair. He turned, one hand resting over his coat, and met Hannibal’s gaze. “Well,” he said, “aren’t you going to offer me some coffee?” </p><p>Hannibal rolled his sleeves to his elbows as he moved behind the kitchen island. “An affogato for desert, perhaps?” A new energy, like a shot of sunlight right into Hannibal's blood stream, seemed to have arrived along with Will. </p><p>Will nodded, his back turned as he busied himself looking for something in his jacket pocket. “I’ve had dinner already.” </p><p>The espresso machine began to hum as it heated up the water. Hannibal watched over it, as if at one point it may quit and need his help to start up again. Once he’d deemed the machine to be well on its way, he took down two cups from the cupboard — glass cups, with little handles and wide mouths. He placed them on the counter, and accompanied them with silver dessert spoons. </p><p>“How was dinner on the plane?” Hannibal stooped to open the freezer drawer. Of course, Will would have had to get home somehow. He smelled, still, of the stagnant air that was circulated on airplanes. </p><p>Will’s voice carried over from where he stood on the other side of the room. “It was as you’d expect. Edible. Not enjoyable.” He paused, and Hannibal heard him shift his weight between his feet. “Aren’t you curious where I went?” </p><p>“Freedom and privacy are values some are all too quick to forget. I believe they are substantial human necessities.” Hannibal placed the container of ice cream by the cups. He nudged the drawer closed with his knee. “And yet…” </p><p>“And yet…” Will echoed. </p><p>“I will admit that I am most interested in why you went. And,” Hannibal found the ice cream scoop in a drawer with the salad tongs. He took it to the sink, to run some warm water on. “And with whom you spent your time.” </p><p>With the warmed ice cream scoop, Hannibal carved two perfectly circular balls of vanilla ice cream, placing one into each of the cups. The dark, chocolate-sweet scent of the espresso ribboned through the kitchen. It seemed to draw Will over, calling him to pull out a stool and sit down, leaning forwards over the island. </p><p>“Ice cream?” </p><p>“And espresso — a familiar treat to those who frequent Italian cafes. Once again, Will, I am wishing we were in Europe, away together.” He brought the cups to the island and poured a shot of espresso over each as Will watched. The hot coffee quickly began to melt the ice cream. Hannibal slid Will’s across to him, placing the spoon in his hand. “Eat it now. The ice cream fights as well as it can, but has no hope of winning against the heat of hell. Affogato means drowned, in English.”</p><p>Hannibal hardly noticed the taste of his dessert as he ate it, which would have been a terrible waste if not for watching Will with his own.  </p><p>“This is good, Hannibal,” Will said in between bites, his lips glistening with drops of the liquid. </p><p>“Indeed, the coffee alone would be quite bitter, and no good once it had cooled. I have always found ice cream too sweet, and unpleasant with anything else. There is only one combination that serves it well. Any other combination, and it would lose all that makes it so special.” </p><p>Will put his spoon into his empty cup and wiped his wrist across his mouth. “I went to LA alone.” </p><p>“Even the soloist cannot complete the dance without some sort of help.” </p><p>“There was a girl.” Will looked down. </p><p>Hannibal clenched his fist on the table. “And what of her?” </p><p>“She took me up to the edge of a cliff on motorbike.” His eyes glazed over, as if he could see her now. “She made me think of you.” </p><p>Hannibal never wanted to be without Will again. He wanted to trap him and lock him away so that no one could touch him. He wanted to examine his mind and his habits and every spidery vein underneath his skin. He wanted to eat him, so that they could become one. </p><p>Hannibal said none of this. He tapped a fingernail against the glass of his cup and noted the haunting way that the lights cast the shadows across Will’s features. </p><p>“I came back because of you,” Will said once he had grown tired of the silence. “Are you going to tell me that I made the wrong decision again?” </p><p>“No.” Hannibal turned, reached one hand to the top corner of the kitchen window. The chain curled against his fingers, cool and refreshing. He bowed his head, taking one more second to admire the necklace, before turning and presenting it once more to Will. “This time I’m asking you to stay.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> *** </p>
</div>Will shouldered the door of his own dorm open and braced himself for Chris’s confrontation. He didn’t know whether he’d be greeted by his possessions all having been burned in excitement of his abrupt departure and a new body on his bed, or by his roommate’s arms around him in warm greetings. As it turned out, he wasn’t met by either. His room, seeming even smaller after coming directly from Hannibal’s, was empty. His bed, still in its habitual state of messiness, was untouched. His school books, in their precocious pile, still sat on the floor underneath their window. Even his Waterman pen hadn’t been moved.<p>He sat on the corner of his bed and picked up the pen, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. At the beginning of freshman year, when he hadn’t yet started keeping the extent of his memorization abilities private, his classmates had found that he made an excellent human encyclopedia. For this particular pen, matte black with gold accents, smooth as butter to write with, they’d dragged him to a trivia night. The questions had been put together by the university’s English department — mainly literature themed. He’d been the only student in the whole pub to correctly answer the final question, winning his team the game.  </p><p>In that moment, half-tipsy and surrounded by his classmates who were actually smiling at him, bumping him on the shoulder cordially, he’d floated in a haze of victory. When he woke up the next morning and found no one had kept their word to meet him for breakfast at Cardo’s, he’d realized what would come to be a fundamental truth: no one who saw him as a tool would ever want him as a friend. </p><p>He was a means to an end. A personification of his skills. Nothing else. </p><p>The pen, too expensive for him to feel comfortable using anyways, now served as a reminder to never again show his hand. But he’d shown it to Hannibal. </p><p>And hadn’t he gotten what he deserved for it. </p><p>After missing nearly three weeks of classes, combining his hospital stay and his little vacation, and missing midterm exams all together, he’d been ‘temporarily suspended’ from his courses. All he really needed credit wise, since he’d maxed his course load in freshman year, was BIOL 235 with Newman. Will had a good rapport with Professor Newman — the result of many attended office hours. It hadn’t been anything he’d meant to do, moreso that he’d just been rather shit at the bio labs since he kept losing focus each time they cut into an animal and saw blood. </p><p>He untucked the new overcoat from the crook of his elbow and flung it beside him on the bed. There was a tear in one of the sleeves, and a missing button. Someone had once tried to write their name onto the tag, which had become nothing more than a smear of black ink. It was heavy, too. Fit for Alaska, apparently. </p><p>He’d finally managed to carpool back down the hill that Patra had left him on. A windowless van, the type that parents warned their kids to stay away from, had slowed down beside him and let him in. Will was fairly certain that by that point he hadn’t even had his thumb out, having given up on hitchhiking after the first couple of scarce vehicles sped by him. </p><p>The driver had been nice enough, and sketchy in all the ways you’d imagine. He’d introduced himself as Craig, although Will had introduced himself as Ben and expected that they’d both been lying. He’d asked Craig to drop him off at the airport, and Craig had been curious as to his destination, so Will had said Alaska. </p><p>He’d accepted Craig’s “scruggly old coat” more to add merit to his lie than anything else. </p><p>Will stood, letting the pen back onto the little table and brushing his palms on his thighs. His fingers hit the shape of the necklace in his pocket, and he let his hand fall away. He found his biology textbook from the pile and held it against his side as he left. He didn’t lock the door on his way out, and it hadn’t been locked when he’d entered. It would seem that neither he nor Chris felt they had anything of value to protect. </p><p>After struggling to get inside while holding the textbook in his good arm, Will took the long way through the science building, none too eager to beg for his school career in a room filled with medical diagrams and big leaf tropical plants. He lingered in the study space, underneath the domed glass ceiling. He’d taken off from LAX at five in the morning, and had no idea what had happened to the day. Already, night was settling in and the windows shone like obsidian. </p><p>He busied himself by pushing in all of the chairs that students had left pulled away from the tables. He returned each chair to its place with his fingers hooked under its arms, holding it up slightly so that it didn’t make a noise against the floor. When he’d finished, he walked a lap of the space, listening to his own footfalls and the surrounding silence. No one, it seemed, was all too eager to jump back into studying. </p><p>Will tried to imagine all of the different ways that their conversation might play out, the points Newman might bring up and the things he could use to his advantage to convince her to go easy on him. He fluffed up his hair, and pinched his cheeks to make himself look flushed. He wondered, briefly, if he should pretend his broken shoulder hurt more than it did. </p><p>Still feeling far from ready, Will took a steadying breath and trudged onward towards Newman’s office. He hadn’t even paused to consider whether or not she’d be there at this hour. Ah, but she must be, as he heard a female voice faintly down the hall. Moving towards it, the voice began to sound too familiar to belong to his biology prof. He held his textbook low by his waist, head tilted in listening. </p><p>Something clicked, and he knew: Alana. He was listening to Alana’s voice. That made no sense. </p><p>Will found the room where her voice was coming from, and the windowless door barring her from his view. He pressed up against it. Alana wouldn’t be taking her science courses until the second term, and so had no reason to be in the science building now. Her voice was higher than he’d become used to, meaning that she was tense or talking to someone she wasn’t familiar with. Will could only make out about a third of her words. </p><p>He waited for whoever she was talking with to answer, but all that continued was Alana’s voice, thin and choppy. It continued for so long that he wondered if she may be recording a voice over, or practicing a speech. </p><p>Finally, right at the same time as Will had begun to pull away from the door, a deeper voice spoke, clear as if it had come from right beside him. </p><p>It said, “I have no doubt Hannibal had a part in it. We just need proof.” </p><p>Will stumbled a step backwards, then put his hand on the doorknob.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Secret Societies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hannibal reminisces Rowall's lesser known history. Will pauses for lunch between study sessions.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b> 3.2 </b>
  </p>
</div>Hannibal stood in the library, but not in the same part of the library as the tables where students were studying, nor by the endless shelves of books anyone could check out. He’d been shown up a flight of stairs — a wide, white staircase with shallow steps. They’d arrived at the top landing, and were unable to get any farther.<p>His companion, a silver haired librarian Hannibal had never once seen working the desk, removed a set of keys from his dress-pants pocket and tried one after another into the door barring the top of the stairs. Hannibal looked over his shoulder as he waited and peered down at the maze of library shelves. How many of those students, he wondered, knew what used to take place right here, right above them?  </p><p>“Sorry, It’s been a while,” the librarian said gruffly. He slipped the final key from his ring into the lock and the door, stiffly, gave way. </p><p>Hannibal reached forwards to help the old librarian coax the door open. He caught a glimpse of the room through the opening and stepped gracefully around to enter first, unable to hold his intrigue back any longer. </p><p>Many many years ago, when the school had raised the money for its very first expansion, they’d allocated the majority of the funds to updating the science labs and building a new set of dorms. These decisions made sense and were of no consequence — it was where the rest of the money had gone that was interesting. Somehow, over ten thousand dollars had managed to find its way into the student association’s hands, and past there, the money disappeared. None of the old financial records Hannibal had poured over ever referenced it again, or gave any explanation for where the money had ended up. The only way Hannibal had traced the money to the construction of this hidden room had been what at first looked like a mistake in an old set of blueprints. </p><p>Hannibal walked briskly inside, eyes forced down to look at only the lines of the hardwood floor. He wanted to see the room for the first time from its center, to feel how it truly was as it surrounded him. He wanted to feel it as they had in the past, in its opening night. An elite group of students and faculty, whispered invitations and knowing smiles.  </p><p>He closed his eyes and let his hands open at his sides. He raised his head, chose a direction in which to start, and finally took in the room. </p><p>If he’d seen it only in a photograph, the room would have fallen easily into the ranks of other such forgotten places: its walls were fading to grey, and its barrel ceilings had spider webs clinging to every crack. There were no windows, the light instead coming from two chandeliers, one just past each side of center. Only a light bulb or two still burned in each chandelier, and those quiet dimly as the stained glass was coated in dust. </p><p>The true nature of the room was much more than its photographable value. It was the sum of all that it could be and all that it once had been. He could see in his mind’s eye bodies moving throughout the room, skirts spinning and sharp shoes stepping in patterns across the floor. He could nearly hear the music and the laughter, could taste on his lips the wine. Hannibal pulled images from his mind, redecorating the room as it may have been: a marble statue in the far corner, turned just so to see the light hit its contours; rows of flowers along the walls, blood reds and pure whites; wine in glass bottles, flutes to taste circulating the room. A grand piano, if they could fit one through the door, and a master pianist to play them classical music until his fingers fell off. </p><p>The thump of the door sounded as the librarian closed it once more, and his footsteps lead him into the room. “Is it as you imagined?” He asked. </p><p>Hannibal hid his annoyance at being brought from his thoughts. He was in no position to show himself as unpolite or angered. “Yes,” he said, “this will do quite nicely.” </p><p>The librarian ended the line of conversation with a sharp nod, and Hannibal returned to familiarizing himself in this old-world space. He felt he’d found Eden. No plants grew in this garden, and yet the space seemed to breath around him as if the walls, floor, and ceiling were living organisms, still the trees that had been fallen so long ago to make their wood. With his breath, Hannibal took in and out the same stagnant, dusty air that had been locked in the room for months, for years, perhaps even had been through the lungs of the last people through the room. The members of that first night.</p><p>Yes, this will do quite nicely. </p><p>“How much for one night?” To bring back, for one night, a splendor that had died all too soon, murdered, as far as Hannibal had been able to understand, by staff cuts and the cycle of graduation. </p><p>The librarian, who had begun to shake the dust off of a red curtain thrown over the edge of a large gold mirror, stopped and considered. “It has always been free for student use, but if you expect any cleaning or for anything to be fixed for you....” </p><p>“No, I’ll prepare the room myself.” </p><p>The librarian tugged the curtain away from the mirror, folding it and tucking it under his elbow. In the large mirror, edged by twisting spirals of gold, Hannibal’s shadowed eyes reflected back at him. He hadn’t noticed how tired he looked, or how the lines at his mouth had apparently deepened over night. His hand sprung to tug at the collar of his shirt, to pull it straighter. He instead curled that hand into a fist and held it in front of his mouth as he cleared his throat. Soon, his cause for worry would pass. </p><p>“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I have another matter to attend to. I will find you when I come back.” </p><p>The librarian held out his key ring by a single key. “She deserves a new caretaker, I believe. It’s been too long since her heart has beat inside of her.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> *** </p>
</div>Will pulled at the strap of his messenger bag, resettling it over his good shoulder. As far as he was concerned, backpacks were far superior, not falling down all the time and threatening to throw all of his stuff onto the ground. Backpacks were also, unfortunately, hard to wear with his arm in its sling, so messenger bag it was. He’d found one in the lost and found, and taken to using it around the school.<p>Prof Newman, after Will had practically begged her, was agreeing to let him retake his midterm exams. No other teacher had been quite so generous. Will, unable now to have any chance at passing the rest of his courses, was only enrolled in BIOL 235. He hardly even qualified anymore to live on campus. Luckily the housing department seemed to have taken pity on him, or were yet to notice, as he hadn’t gotten any notice to move out. </p><p>He still, also, had his caf card, and was heading to the cafeteria now  in search of lunch. He’d spent the morning studying. Just because Newman had agreed to get him another opportunity to take the test didn’t mean he was ready for it — he’d missed all of the classes as well. With no friends to ask for notes, Will had no choice but to study the textbook and go over old exams. </p><p>As he swung around a corner, following the stream of students through the bright hallway, Will felt fingers wrap around the bicep of his good arm. He stopped, looking through the stream of students for the body attached to the hand, and was pulled roughly forwards. The flow of students parted around him as he was moved into the shelter of a doorway. In the stillness, Will shook his arm out of Hannibal’s grasp. </p><p>Because it had been Hannibal, of course, who had pulled him through the hallway. His eyes shone with some sort of pressing excitement. </p><p>“Hannibal?” Will asked, ignoring the urge to place his hand on Hannibal’s cheek. It wasn’t like Hannibal to have any look in his eyes other than mild displeasure.  </p><p>“I’ve just brought together the most brilliant idea.” </p><p>“Well, alright,” Will said. He checked his watch: his self-imposed half hour lunch break was nearly half over already. “I’m on my way to eat.” </p><p>Hannibal smiled in a devilish way, and said, “I would be more than happy to cook something for you in my kitchen.”  </p><p>“I’m on a bit of a time limit, actually.” Will looked over his shoulder, and could see the entryway to the cafeteria just past the end of the hallway. “I’ll just see what they have in the caf. I know, I know,” he didn’t need to look at Hannibal to know what disappointed expression must show on his face, “you think it’s not worth the money. I disagree.” </p><p>Will pulled the damn messenger bag strap back into place again and set off for the cafeteria. He didn't necessarily want to walk away, but If there was a way to make Hannibal follow you, it was to be Will Graham, and then to make it seem like you didn’t want Hannibal to follow you. Will stretched his head down just a bit, as he walked forwards. Giving Hannibal a view of the back of his neck. He brought his good arm up and ran it through his hair. </p><p>He could play this game, too. </p><p>Will joined the line of students with his cafeteria tray, scanning his options. “Pasta salad or wrap?” </p><p>Hannibal didn’t speak, possibly out of disgust. He had, as predicted, followed Will from their hidden doorway and stood beside him in line. His arms were crossed over his chest and he surveyed the scene with a type of cold displeasure that Will recognized from the waiting room of dentist offices. </p><p>“I agree,” Will said to Hannibal’s silence, turning back towards the serving bowls, “pasta salad it is.” </p><p>Hannibal joined Will at a table near the back of the dining area. He watched from standing as Will sat down and placed his tray down. Will let his messenger bag fall to the seat beside him, glad to have the weight off of his shoulder. The movement jostled his biology textbook half way out of the bag, and Hannibal took it into his hands. </p><p>“If microbiology is the reason why you couldn’t accompany me to my kitchen, Will, I’m afraid you should have mentioned it sooner. I am, of course, more than happy to assist with your studying.” </p><p>“You’ve taken this course? I forget you’re some sort of pre-med.” </p><p>Hannibal, ever modest, didn’t make any show to correct Will’s hyperbole. He flipped through the first few pages of the textbook. “You really must let me help, Will. I would enjoy refreshing myself with the more rudimentary concepts.” </p><p>Will rolled his eyes and took a bite of his lunch. </p><p>The textbook was slid back into his bag and Hannibal’s hand was placed palm-down in front of him on the table. “You must come with me.” </p><p>“I’m eating.” </p><p>“I would advise you to come with me now.” </p><p>“Is that a threat?” Will raised his eyes up to meet Hannibal’s, him standing over Will like a towering tree. </p><p>“Would you like it to be a threat?” Hannibal’s vivid smile was back. It was the only smile Will could remember seeing on his face, and it was an unpleasant smile which twisted his features and darkened his eyes. Even through it, though, Hannibal’s eyes betrayed a fondness. </p><p>“I never know with you.” But Will stood, and he wished he was taller, at least by a couple of inches. Just enough to be able to look down at Hannibal. </p><p>He grabbed once more his bag, ensuring that everything was back inside, and stepped away from the table. He began to follow Hannibal. They had only reached the cafeteria’s exit when Hannibal sent them in different directions.</p><p>The grass outside was getting long — it brushed against Will’s shoes as he approached the library as instructed.  Hannibal had told Will to go to the library, and so Will went to the library. It didn’t matter that he’d made a plan to study, or that he didn’t particularly want to be venturing outside. He would do as Hannibal had asked. It was what he had signed up for, and what would convince Hannibal that he meant it. </p><p>Hannibal was an intense person, both intensely horrid and intensely private. He kept two steps ahead of everyone else because he could, and because he had to. Will would have to work twice as hard, then, to keep his intentions away from Hannibal’s gaze. </p><p>His advantage was that, as opposed to every other person, Hannibal had chosen to let Will in. There was a trust that Will would no doubt damage, but everything was a risk, and breaking the trust was the lesser risk. It was the right thing to do. It had taken Will running away and coming back to see that, somehow, he’d gotten Hannibal’s trust without really meaning to.</p><p>Will pulled open the heavy library door and stepped through. A cold gust followed him into the building, seeming to cool the air around him and turn everything to ice. As Will moved through the library, the ice followed him until all of the books had frozen shut and all of the students wandering through the rows had had their breath freeze in their lungs. </p><p>A tap on his shoulder, and Will turned to see one of the library pages, a fourth year girl with large blue eyes, holding an ancient looking key out towards him. She waited until he took it, and pointed him up a flight of bone-white stairs. Will ascended the stairs alone, key held forwards as if at any moment a door might pop up before him. </p><p>Piano music, slow and faded, slipped between the cracks of the walls and bled down the staircase, pooling at Will’s feet. He reached a place to put the key and slotted it in, turning it with a click. The door fell open, and the piano music expanded around him. He looked through the room, first, for the piano. There wasn’t one — instead, the music came from a record player, propped in a corner. </p><p>Will stepped forwards, spinning as he took everything in. He couldn’t still be in the library, or if he was it wasn’t any part of the library he’d ever seen. It felt like a dungeon, despite its being on an upper floor. The interior was dark, windowless, and seemed to echo both the music and his footsteps thickly around him. </p><p>It wasn’t beautiful. He would quicker associate the large room with decay and negligence than anything loved, and yet, it seemed to have a lasting air of hope. Maybe it was the arching ceilings, carefully sculpted, or the scuffed wooden floors. Somehow, Will knew that at some point there had been an attachment to this room. He wondered if it would ever see love again. </p><p>Hannibal joined Will silently, his hands clasped behind his back. He’d changed his shirt, wearing now a silky white thing that fell like liquid over his shoulders. </p><p>Will pulled at the strap of his bag and nodded towards the record player. “Let me guess, Bach?” </p><p>“Handel.” Hannibal corrected. He walked to the record player and peered down at it, watching the record spin and tapping his fingers against his thigh to the same time as the notes. “This one always makes me think of the ocean. There is a great depth to it, don’t you find? Reminiscent of the open sea, and with the b-flat —  a sadness. Like perhaps the sailors fear they won’t be returning home this time.” </p><p>“I just hear piano,” Will said. </p><p>“Your life would very much improved if you could step outside of the constraints of yourself. See yourself as more than you are.” He closed the gap between them and took Will’s bag off of his shoulder, letting it fall to the ground with a thump that shook the record played. The song paused, the needle jumping forwards, and continued on from a new section. </p><p>“On the contrary, I’ve lived enough outside of myself. I’d appreciate knowing, for once, only what’s actually right ahead of me.” Will looked at his toes, or past them to the slats in the wood. Anything, to not look Hannibal in his eyes which were now so close. </p><p>“You are taking your encephalitis pills, then?” </p><p>“Yes.” Hannibal placed his hand at the back of Will’s neck, over the skin that before he’d tried to show off, and Will continued speaking after a sharp inhale. “Yes, I had to. I want to know who I am.” </p><p>“All we know is what we perceive, Will. How do we ever know who we are? What is real?” He spread his fingers, encompassing the entire back of Will’s neck. With the weight of his hand there, Will felt he was mere seconds from death, from his head failing to be connected with the rest of his body. </p><p>“I know… you’re real.” Will said. “I never would have thought to give myself you, if this were all in my head.” </p><p>Hannibal’s voice dropped lower with his response. “Am I not, instead, exactly what you would have imagined? Someone who can cut through the fog and join you — see what you see? Someone who understands as you do?” </p><p>“I know you’re real because I can feel your hand on my neck. I can feel the pulse through your fingers, the moving blood that means you are alive.” </p><p>Will’s eyes fluttered open and watched as Hannibal moved himself closer, until their faces were but inches apart. He hadn’t moved his hand from the back of Will’s neck, and now he took his other hand and cupped it around Will’s cheek. The piano notes sped up, coming to a crescendo. The shadows in the empty room made Hannibal’s eyes appear open even after he’d closed them. He leaned in and Will expected a kiss but all he got was Hannibal’s face pressed against his own. </p><p>“Are you alive, Will?” Hannibal’s lips touched Will’s skin as they shaped his words. </p><p>“Make me feel alive.”  He bent his knees, extracting himself from Hannibal’s grasp. “I want to do what you do, Hannibal. Show me how. Make me feel alive.” </p><p>Hannibal, his cheeks flushed, leveled his gaze at Will. He smoothed a wrinkle in his shirt with his palm, and blinked his eyes. </p><p>“I know and I’m not afraid. I know I didn’t kill the man that night.” Will took a step forward. “I know and I’m not afraid.” </p><p>Hannibal left Will and stopped the record player. The silence expanded through the room, killing any hope Will had had of anything happening between them. The silence was sobering and suddenly Will was very aware that he was, if only technically, still in his university’s library. Hannibal kept his gaze far from Will as he collected his things, and Will wondered if he’d pushed too far. </p><p>Finally, as he turned to exit the room, Hannibal let his eyes look back on Will and he shook his head slightly. “I can’t refuse such a proposition from you, Will. But you mustn’t ask me again. These things are not instant — we must wait until everything is once more in my control.” He faced back to the doorway, and made to leave. “Oh, and Will?” He held his hand out for the key. Will tossed it over, and Hannibal deposited it in his pocket. “I plan to host a party in this room. If you are serious, come to my place tonight and we'll discuss the details of the event.” He took a step down the stairs and quickly was out of view. </p><p>Will exhaled, his breath shaking, and pulled his phone from his back pocket. He dialed Alana’s number, and as the phone rang he stepped back until he could lean against the wall. </p><p>“He agreed to it,” Will said when the line picked up. </p><p>“Do you know when?” </p><p>Will flicked his eyes about the room and was reminded of his bag, its contents spilling out onto the floor. “Not yet. He invited me to his dorm tonight.”</p><p>“Do you think—” </p><p>“No, not there. Not yet.” He said. “I’ll tell you when I know more. Pass this on to Jack.” </p><p>“He’s here with me now. Sorry, should have told you earlier. You’re on speaker phone.” </p><p>Jack’s voice joined Alana in greetings. He wanted to ask questions that Will didn’t have the answers to. Will ended the call quickly, his skin crawling with discomfort. He fled from the library, ran to his dorm and threw himself onto his bed. He wondered, not for the first time, if he was making the right decision.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Wow! Look you guys! That was almost a kissing scene!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Invitees</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jack returns to Hannibal's door. Will finds himself making coffee in Hannibal's kitchen. Party planning is underway.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b> 3.3 </b>
  </p>
</div>Jack showed up at five fifteen in the morning. Hannibal, in his pyjama pants and a cardigan that he’d hastily pulled on, opened his door and spent nearly a full minute glaring at Jack in the dimly lit hallway as his brain slowly turned on.<p>“Jack,” he said, voice raspy. “What a surprise. Won’t you come in?” </p><p>Jack shook his head. “No thank you, Mr. Lecter. I’ll only take up a moment of your time.” </p><p>Here he stopped talking, and Hannibal watched him, waiting for him to say whatever it was that had brought him, fully dressed, to Hannibal’s door so early. Perhaps Jack had decided to begin a more hands-on approach in his attempt to prove Hannibal guilty of killing Will's doctor. Jack hadn’t <i>told</i> Hannibal that the latter was under any sort of ongoing suspicion, but it had been obvious that Jack had advised his companions to keep an eye out. The undercover investigation of Hannibal's life had been rather entertaining, really, if not a terrible annoyance. He'd made fun with it by trying to locate the person in each of his classes who'd been tasked at keeping an eye on him. Members of the Student Association for Safety and Justice, all of them, and all exactly the type of nosey kiss-ups that he’d expected. Easy to scare, especially now that they all were inclined to believe him a murderer. </p><p>If Hannibal had even just a drop less self-control, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from following at least one of those snitches down an empty hallway, and…  </p><p>“...apologize.” Jack cleared his throat. “Mr. Lecter?” </p><p>“Yes,” Hannibal said, sorting through his thoughts for Jack's words. “I heard you. You’ve cleared me of any suspicion for the murder of Will’s doctor. How convenient; what made your organization change its mind on me?” </p><p>Jack transferred his weight from one foot to the other. “New evidence has been brought into consideration,” he said. The words rolled off of his tongue as if he’d read them from a script. </p><p>“Isn’t that ideal, Jack? Good morning to you. I believe you’ll be on your way now.” Hannibal smiled insincerely, and closed the door on Jack. The liar. </p><p>Seconds later, Hannibal grasped the handle of his juice pitcher -- he’d hardly noticed walking to the kitchen, but rather had ended up there by habit. Orange juice sloshed into his glass until he’d filled it three-quarters of the way, then he placed the pitcher back into the fridge. He leaned on the counter with one elbow, and tasted the bitter orange juice on his tongue. </p><p>If Jack had stopped by to say that the target was off of Hannibal’s back, then surely they’d placed their hand on the trigger. They only wanted Hannibal’s guard down. Hannibal had behaved himself since the murder, and hadn't dirtied his hands with any new blood. He hadn’t felt so trapped in quite a long time. Because of the suspicion, Hannibal had been reduced to only a fraction of himself, scared to make too big of a ripple in the water and drown. He missed the excitement, and the power. </p><p>He didn’t want to admit it, but the itching need to return once more to this part of himself was largely responsible for agreeing to act as Will’s homicide-coach, to put it bluntly. After their rendezvous in the upper library room, that had been what Will had asked for, to Hannibal's surprise and delight. Using the dance as the scene of the murder was especially risky; everyone of any importance would be there. To be surrounded by the company had been the whole point. </p><p>If Jack was preparing to take Hannibal down, his accusation loaded up and aimed, then Hannibal’s next move had to be one of protection. When someone of no consequence was accused, who stood up for him? Who packed the seats of the courtroom and ran the story in the paper and fought for the lone man from the outside while his hands were tied?</p><p>No one. The lone man died alone. </p><p>So Hannibal had to prove that he wasn't alone. He would hold a dashing party, reminiscent of old days, and surround himself with bodies to bare witness, to dance with him and drink with him as a final show of bonding. With them, his guests, he would present to Jack a sort of army. They would say: ‘What will you do now? We are all watching, and we are all waiting.’ </p><p>And Hannibal, as their ruler, would compel them to fight for him. Jack’s proof would be shaky at best. Whatever he had on Hannibal, when put against an alibi, backed up by school faculty members and respected upper class students? When the wide-eyed freshmen were sitting in the front row, smiling at him and calling out to him in love and wiping tears from their eyes? Jack’s evidence would stand no chance. </p><p>Hannibal would turn himself into a celebrity — untouchable. A devil protected by angels. </p><p>Many angels and one half breed, perhaps. Will could no longer be anything so simple. If he had, at some point, possessed wings and a halo, they were now surely tainted. His wings would have lost their feathers, showing now skin and bone like a bat’s. His halo would have fallen, crooked and shadowing his eyes. From his skull, mostly hidden underneath his messy hair, two horns would have started to grow. </p><p>Or perhaps they’d been there all along. It came back to, of course, whether you considered it that the chicken or the egg had come first. Was everyone, by nature, good or evil, their leading disposition a cause of nurture? Or had Hannibal corrupted Will’s good nature so fully that he’d begun to shift his entire being. Hannibal could only assume that even he wasn’t persuasive enough to have pulled off the latter. </p><p>Having finished his orange juice, Hannibal rinsed the glass out in the sink. He didn’t plan to wash it right then, in the habit of waiting until after breakfast so that he could fill the sink up with hot, soapy water and wash a large collection of dishes at once. He stood at the sink, holding the cup under the stream of water until the glass was overfilling. The water ran hot, and as the cold water that had come first was replaced by heat, Hannibal’s fingers around the glass threatened to let go. </p><p>He would not relate his feelings for will to this overflowing cup. He would not, because that would be dramatic and childish and redundant. Hannibal drank from the cup of sophistication. He judged and pitied love sick people, he did not become them. </p><p>Even if he had been so inclined to relish in such unflattering thoughts, Hannibal didn’t have the time. There was a dance to plan.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> *** </p>
</div>Will found Hannibal in the farthest corner of the school’s bookshop, where nobody ever really went except for the employees, and where nothing was really stocked except boxes of stationary and cards that never sold. The comfortable sounds of conversation and movement that filled the rest of the store died off, and all bright colours seemed to drain away, leaving behind a white wall of papers and paper boxes. Somehow, Will's brain had supplied him with a livelier image to accompany the thought of Hannibal purchasing invitations for his dance.<p>The only dance Will had previously attended had been a terrible mock-prom at his elementary school. That event, which had ended with a literal slap in the face, had put Will so fully off of dances that he'd skipped out on his high school prom entirely. He didn't want to go to Hannibal's on he principal that it was a dance and that it was a social event and that he'd be expected to dress nicely (all terrible things), but he needed to. And somehow, he found that as the event came nearer, he craved more and more being at a dance with Hannibal. He wasn't going as Hannibal's date, at least not as far as he knew. He was simply going, and Hannibal would be there, and Will was perhaps tentatively looking forward to seeing Hannibal all dressed up. </p><p>Not that he ever wore anything less than semi-formal. Today, Hannibal stood out from the colourless-paper wall in dark blue pants and a checkered coat. He'd taken a box of the sample cardstocks off of the shelf, and had his head bent to examine them as he flicked through the options. The cards all looked the exact same, now, to Will, and he was sure that when he’d closed in the distance and was standing right beside them, they’d look the same still. </p><p>“I thought I’d find you here,” Will said, voice bouncing about the corner and echoing back to him. </p><p>“I would hope so, seeing as I told you I’d be here.” Hannibal didn’t raise his eyes from the papers. “Will you help me choose the cardstock for the invitations?” </p><p>Will stuck his fingers into the box and pulled out a paper at random. It looked like craft paper, with a ribbony, almost iridescent edging and a place for a stamp in the corner. “How’s this?” </p><p>Hannibal gave the card one second of his time before he took it from Will and slotted it back into the box. “On second thought, perhaps you’d let me choose.” </p><p>“Who even sends physical cards anymore?” Will leaned against the railing of the shelf, kicking one foot out in front of him and tapping that heel up and down on the floor. As if a line divided them, all the other students in the shop stayed in their half of the store, opposite Will and Hannibal. They browsed the textbooks or the hoodies like every normal person would do, and probably weren’t struggling to keep plans for an apparent murder from circling their thoughts. </p><p>“The invitation is a substantial part of the event, Will. It presents itself as the first thing that the invitees see, which will more likely than not have a great impact on whether or not they attend. As for the mode of the invitation, I’ll admit that these physical cards, along with the calligraphy that I will be using to address them, are unfortunately on their way to becoming obsolete. It all works to create a persistent image, though, as the same fate has befallen our event itself.” </p><p>Will tapped his heel twice more and pushed away from the railing. He moved shoulder to shoulder with Hannibal, who had chosen a cardstock and was using his finger to count out a number of them from their specific container. “Take one more,” Will told him once the movement had stilled.  </p><p>“Did you change your mind on inviting Alana?” Hannibal asked, his voice suddenly icy. </p><p>Will didn’t mention the change of tone, or the obvious jealousy that seeped from it. There were more important things to discuss. “No,” he said, “I want to invite Felix. He’s a freshman, likes to spend time reading on the fields. I think-” Will lowered his voice and tucked his chin towards Hannibal, “I think he’d be a good choice for our… after party.” </p><p>Felix, as it were, had graduated from high school at age sixteen. He was in his third year at Rowall, the same as Jack, although he was young enough to be in his first. More importantly, he knew.</p><p>Hannibal’s finger counted forwards one more card. He nodded his head. </p><p>They paid for the cards and carried them back to Hannibal’s dorm in a brown paper bag. Once inside, Hannibal placed the stack of cardstock neatly onto his dining table, and set his address book down beside it. Will knew that it was an address book and not any other sort of notebook as it had its purpose spelled out on the cover in big, bright blue letters. Hannibal noticed Will looking and said, bitterly, “a gift from my aunt.”</p><p>Hannibal settled in at the head of the table, preparing a little pot of ink and a long pen with an odd silver blade at the end. He’d unbuttoned the sleeves of his shirt and pushed them up to his elbows to keep them from danger of knocking into the ink. Will imagined pushing over Hannibal’s pot of ink, spilling the dark liquid over the table and ruining all of the invitations. What would Hannibal do, then? If he became angry, angry enough to have struck someone else, he still would not strike Will. Will wasn’t well versed in the form that a relationship took when both parties liked each other in the same way, and even in this most complete relationship he'd ever been in, they still hadn't created stability. </p><p>“Can I help?” He asked, to stop himself from actually testing out his theory. </p><p>Hannibal had finished only one invitation. The problem wasn’t with his technique —  although Will had nothing to base it on he would assume that Hannibal was writing faster than most would be able to — but the calligraphy took so many intricate, technical strokes that each word seemed to last forever. </p><p>“Do you have any experience using walnut ink?” Hannibal asked in a tone that suggested he considered it a valid question. </p><p>“I-” Will scanned around the room for something helpful to do that didn’t involve whatever walnut ink was. “Can I make us some coffee?” </p><p>“Please use the stove; I’d prefer to show you how to use the machine before you try it on your own.” </p><p>Will made a noise of agreement and showed himself to the kitchen. Hannibal, somehow, had everything stored exactly where it made sense to be, and Will found the coffee grounds and a pan in the first place he looked for them. </p><p>He placed a pan onto an element and set the heat to high. Coffee prepared on a stovetop was nothing new, and Will found himself falling in a sort of trance as he brought the water across the bottom of the pan to a boil and poured in the coffee. He tipped the container of grounds over quickly, and they hit the shallow water with a splash. Droplets of the water, piping hot, flew up and seemed to lodge themselves into the exposed skin of Will’s arm. </p><p>He knew that, in theory, he should pause and run cold water over the burns. He continued to make their coffee. He covered the pan with a glass lid and leaned over it, watching the grounds sink to the bottom as the water began to cloud to an earthy brown colour. Somewhere behind him, on the other side of the kitchen island, Hannibal’s pen scratched against paper as he worked on the invitations. </p><p>Will’s arm sang a song of pain. If he focused on nothing but the pain he could dull it, as if by making it face itself it grew self conscious and backed off. Will let it hurt. He deserved the pain; continuing to make the coffee was the least he could do, as he stood in Hannibal’s kitchen lying to him. Cooking on a stovetop where Hannibal had many times done the same for him. </p><p>The coffee bubbled as it boiled, steam billowing out of the hole in the lid. Five minutes had passed. The coffee was ready, and if Will didn’t remove it from the heat soon, it would start to burn. Will was a liar. It would start to burn. The coffee would start to burn, if it didn’t boil over the edges of the pan first. He was about to destroy the only thing he might be capable of loving. The steam billowed out towards the ceiling. </p><p>Hannibal moved the pan off of the heat and flicked the element off. He didn’t speak, and yet his face voiced his worry. </p><p>Will shook his head clear and took over from Hannibal to strain the coffee. He poured it evenly between two large mugs and handed one to Hannibal. “Do you have milk?” Will asked, even though he knew the answer already. </p><p>Hannibal drew his lips into a straight line and placed his mug onto the counter. He opened the fridge and brought Will the carton of milk. “Are you feeling alright, Will?” </p><p>The milk turned the coffee in Will’s mug from its deep brown to a swirling white. He’d put too much in. “Why do you ask?” </p><p>“It wasn’t a difficult assumption to make.” </p><p>Holding his mug in both hands, Will brought them back to the dining table. He sat at the opposite end to Hannibal’s half-finished invitations. He removed one hand from the warmth of his mug and drew the tips of his fingers lightly over his still stinging wrist </p><p>Hannibal had nearly sat once more in front of his work. Instead, he placed his coffee down on the table and walked pointedly to Will. He helped Will to standing and led him back to the kitchen. Perhaps he’d been unimpressed with the coffee and would force Will to try again. Probably the coffee had burned. </p><p>He rolled Will’s sleeve up farther and held his burned arm to bring it under the tap. The water ran cool. Will’s shoulders relaxed; he sighed and leaned back against Hannibal, letting his head fall against Hannibal’s shoulder. </p><p>“It’s not wise to be in such close proximity to hot substances when your head is somewhere else,” Hannibal said. The words lacked their usual bite. </p><p>“That sounds like advice from someone with first hand experience.” </p><p>“Indeed, I am quite often in the kitchen.” Hannibal took his hand, the one not holding Will’s wrist, and touched the side of Will’s thigh. “Were you thinking about what we may do on the night of the dance?” </p><p>“Yes,” Will said truthfully. </p><p>“If you’re not ready…” </p><p>“I’m ready. I want to.” Will said. “I know that I’m not making a good case for it right now, but I’m ready.” He opened his eyes and lifted his head from Hannibal’s shoulder. As if some spell had been broken, Hannibal stepped away, removing both hands from where they’d made contact with Will’s body. He leaned his hip against the counter. </p><p>“Do you remember,” Hannibal asked, locking his gaze onto Will’s, “that you burnt yourself as well the night we spent together at that house in the woods?” </p><p>“Before you killed that man?” </p><p>“Before we killed him, yes.” </p><p>“Do you think,” Will opened and closed the fingers of the hand under the water, “that it’s like some sort of pre-game ritual?” </p><p>“I do not believe it would be wise to plan on doing this to yourself before each time, no.” </p><p>“Is that suggesting that there will be subsequent times?” </p><p>Hannibal turned the tap off and took Will’s wrist once more into his grasp to examine. “That will depend on how you feel afterwards, Will. And during.” </p><p>“Would you like there to be more?”</p><p>The grip around Will’s wrist tightened, and Will flicked his gaze to Hannibal in time to watch him wipe an expression of desire from his face. “My inclinations are of no immediate consequence.” Apparently finding the burns on Will’s arm to have been satisfactorily healed, Hannibal led Will back to the dining table. </p><p>“Has your coffee gone cold?” Will asked. He parted from Hannibal’s side to check his own coffee, and found it with a layer of film. He sloshed the liquid from side to side and set the mug down once more. </p><p>Hannibal finished the remaining invitations in Will’s presence, occasionally explaining to Will who the invitation would be going to, and why that person had been invited. Hannibal had an impressive breadth to his invitees, although that would have been more impressive to Will if he hadn’t already been so familiar with how charismatic and charming Hannibal could be. </p><p>With all of the invitations completed, Hannibal cleaned up his ink and pen. He took his mug to the kitchen, and ignored Will’s protests to take Will’s mug away as well. </p><p>“Really, Hannibal, I’m the guest. Let me clean up.” </p><p>“It is precisely because you are the guest that I will not let you. I have already been a poor host today, having you make us our drinks.” Hannibal reappeared from the kitchen, drying his hands with a dish towel. “And now that we have finished with the invitations, how do you prefer to study for biology?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Objects of the Past</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Will learns how he did on his Biology exam. Hannibal wakes up on the morning of the dance.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everybody! Thank you so much for reading this far. I will try my best to get the next chapter up by Sunday as per usual, but I have my own midterms coming up. It may take me a little longer than usual to get the next chapter to where I want it, so please bear with me if it isn't up until Monday or Tuesday. </p><p>Anyways, please enjoy chapter 16!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p><b> 3.4 </b> </p>
</div>Will’s elbows dug into his Professor’s desk: into her uneven, cluttered papers and the hard desk underneath them. He let his face fall into his hand, covering his eyes and hiding — from the walls of her office and the potted plants that adorned them — that tears threatened to fall.<p>He had never gotten a bad mark in his life, not really. Moving schools often as a child had made it hard, sometimes, to string transcripts together. He’d missed some credits here and there, and missed some concepts altogether until he'd started high school and had been forced to learn all he needed quickly and messily. Even still, he’d easily topped his classes. </p><p>The grades had never been too important, until they had to be. They’d become the thing that would get him out of his current place, out of his unhappy life and propel him somewhere better. They’d become pieces of a puzzle, each one making the image of his ideal future clearer and closer. He’d graduated, and started university, and topped his classes again in freshman year, and he’d thought that the puzzle was complete. Indestructible. </p><p>Today, the puzzle was destroyed. Broken in a million pieces across the floor, or half drowned in water, the edges wrinkled and bloating. His future, once so apparently in his grasp, had darkened. </p><p>Will pushed back away from Professor Newman’s desk, and counted the plants along her walls. Twelve of them, he found there to be, and each more broad-leafed than the last. He imagined himself in a jungle, somewhere warm and humid. Then, maybe, he could pass the couple of tears off for beads of sweat. </p><p>He brushed the tear off of his face roughly with the back of his hand. If he was going to be stupid he couldn’t also be weak. </p><p>And he was stupid. He was such a fool. </p><p>His graded exam was somewhere in front of him, in amongst the rest of the loose papers covering the professor's desk. If he could force himself to look for it, Will was sure the test wouldn’t be hard to find. It had large red letters across the top right hand corner, and a circled percentage score. A very low score. A less than twenty percent score. </p><p>Will brushed a second tear away, even angrier at this one than he’d been at the first. </p><p>Perhaps Newman had considered it a kindness, inviting Will into her office to receive the news. She’d expected more from him. Will had taken his biology midterm that morning as the only student in a large lecture hall. His thoughts had bounced all around the hundreds of seats, all the way up to touch the sloping ceiling, and still they hadn’t been able to give him anything useful. </p><p>He’d focused, during the test, on the weight of his pen in his fingers and the scratch of papers against the side of his hand. He’d read the first question, then read it again, the words swimming through his brain, meaningless. He’d moved onto the second question, and found the same problem. </p><p>He was tempted to blame his score on a lack of studying, but that wasn’t quite right; Will had studied as much as he ever did. He’d put in the same amount of time. The real, unique issue came down to the function of his brain — it wasn’t picking up information as it usually did. Each of his well-organized files, the ones in his brain where he normally stored information such as the function of cytoplasmic organelles and the differences between a phenotype and a genotype, had been dumped. All thrown away and replaced with thoughts of only one thing. There hadn’t been room in this brain for test answers. </p><p>Will stood, and when his eyes sought out his test atop the papers on Professor Newman’s desk, he hastily flipped it over. Turnung around, he was within a few inches of the nearest houseplant. He bent his knees to pick it up, using both hands to hold it around its large porcelain pot. The plant, about two feet tall, weighed more than he thought it would. He imagined the plant slipping from his grasp and falling to the ground, splitting the pot open and letting out a stream of soil onto the carpet. The leaf facing him irritated his cheek as he placed the pot down again. </p><p>The plant’s leaves bounced from the movement and Will caught one between two fingers, stilling it. All of the files in his brain had been filled to capacity with thoughts of Hannibal, and so he’d failed his exam. For all of the harm that Will’s discomfited thoughts of Hannibal had caused, they hadn’t worked to make anything clearer on that matter, either. Will dreaded the dance. He dreaded and hated what he would have to do. </p><p>Newman’s office wasn’t very big, and the longer Will stayed stuck inside of it, the more that the walls seemed to shrink in around him. Newman had marked Will’s exam in front of him, sitting on the lecturer’s seat at the front of the room while Will watched from his desk, boiling with anticipation. </p><p>Will had known, even as he’d presented her with his finished exam papers, that he hadn’t done well. He’d left multiple questions blank —  another first. As he’d waited for his test to be marked, he’d tried to pack his pen and water bottle back into his messenger back. His hands had been shaking. </p><p>Will’s hands were shaking still, along with what felt like his whole body. He felt like the sole survivor of a shipwreck. He’d watched from freezing water as his home sunk into a black depth, taking everything that he’d worked for away from him. How did he go on, with his legs frozen and his home destroyed and no reason, really, to live? </p><p>He picked up another of Newman’s plants. This one was tiny, the pot small enough to fit in one hand. The plant resembled the grand reaches of ivy that covered many of Rowall’s buildings. Its leaves had the same triangular shape, and were the same deep green with elegant white veins. This plant was a baby, delicate and soft. Will could have torn all of its leaves off with the lightest touch. </p><p>Somehow, the tiny plant inspired jealousy. To be so young, and to think only of light things and necessary things and to never worry that you wouldn’t have enough of either. Will could never go back to innocence. </p><p>He could, however, dig himself deeper into the hole of corruption. Will tucked the tiny plant, pot and all, into his messenger bag. He found his exam on Newman’s desk and ripped it twice down the center, letting the pieces fall around him. Professor Newman had tried to console Will in the only way that their student-teacher relationship really allowed. She’d placed him in her office, away from the eyes and ears of his peers, and had offered to take his case to the dean. Now that he’d flunked out of his last course, his scholarship would be revoked.  </p><p>Newman had left him with the assurance that she’d find a way for him to move forward in his studies. He doubted she would. His puzzle pieces wouldn’t be so easily convinced to fit together again. Will considered himself good enough as gone; he wouldn't be taking any more courses from this university. </p><p>The office door had been left unlocked, and Will let himself out quietly. Newman’s tiny potted-plant reached a few leaves tentatively from inside his bag, and he nestled it in deeper so that it would be hidden as he fled through the science building.  </p><p>If Will had to go back to live with his father… He didn’t think he could do it. The worst part would be the mocking, the, “so you couldn’t cut it in the big city,” and the “I told you you were better off where you were born.” He would sink into the dirt and die there. His muscles would harden to stone until they would no longer move. He’d never see Hannibal again, never ride a motorbike at sunset or plunge from a cliff into churning water. Will tasted salt on his tongue. He imagined himself buried under a gravestone that read <i> The world moved around him without his notice. </i> Will used his shoulder to open the door, and once outside he ducked his head and ran.</p><p>It was raining. Will’s hair blew around his face, curling with each drop of water. He held his bag against his side with his good arm. The grass of the fields licked at his shoes, and pulled him in where puddles were forming. He trudged forwards, unseeing, until his feet hit concrete once more. Will put a hand against his chest and caught his breath. Cold, wet air fled in and out of his lungs. Not dust, not dirt to bury him, but fresh energizing forest air. </p><p>He was not what he’d been before, because the things that he’d gained which made him different weren’t objects that could be taken away. Will knew more, and he knew better now. He would never return home to die. Released from all of his responsibilities, Will was free to do whatever he wanted. </p><p>Nothing mattered anymore. He’d been freed. There was nothing stopping Will from burning his dorm room to the ground, or disappearing into the forest, or finding Hannibal and pushing him against the wall and telling him how much he’d messed everything up. He’d push Hannibal against a wall and tell him of Jack’s plans. He’d put his hands on Hannibal’s shoulders, holding him by the material of his shirt, and refuse to let go. </p><p>And nothing would happen except for their breath in and out of their lungs. No one would need or be needed. Nothing would come that couldn’t go again just as easily. Every unknown that the future may have held, every pain that had yet to be inflicted, every promise that could only be broken, would cease to exist. This new freedom and recklessness, this complete detachment, he’d capture it between his palms and use it to lock Hannibal with him into a moment that never ended. </p><p>Will pulled at the strap of his bag, moving it farther over his shoulder. The building that he’d ended up in front of stood two floors tall, and its walls shone a pale grey —  cement bricks encasing eye-like windows. This dorm housed women only, and was rumoured to be home to a topless study room. Will found that rumour completely unlikely, if fun to think about. Hannibal would think it downright lewd. </p><p>Unleashed Will, reckless Will, actions-moving-faster-than-thoughts Will circled the women’s dorm until he found the front door. He found it unlocked and unguarded; he entered the building and began to climb the winder staircase. No one stopped him. </p><p>He wasn’t precisely looking for the topless study room, but he also wasn’t, strictly speaking, not keeping an eye out. Most doors were closed, and the ones that weren’t, so far, only led to double-bedded dorm rooms not much different from his own. The women in the rooms stared back. Some of them glared at him, and some of them smiled. Will had never gone looking for sex as an escape, but he’d also never watched as his life fell apart around him. If one of the girls invited him in, he’d go. </p><p>“Will?” </p><p>He turned around, and pushed lightly on the last door that he’d passed. It swung open, showing another dorm room like his own. One of the beds sat empty. In the center of the other, two bodies lay muddled together. Will followed the lines of arms and legs to find which parts attached to which body. One of them was a stern-looking student with a loose braid in her hair and red lipstick. The other was Alana. </p><p>“I’m -” Will looked around him as if he’d find words to say written on the hallway walls. “...lost.”</p><p>Alana pulled her limbs back to herself and sat straighter on the bed. The other girl followed suit. She tugged at the spaghetti straps of her tank top, lifting up the neckline, and continued frowning. Alana used both hands to bring her hair behind her shoulders. “You don’t have any reason to stand there looking so dumb-struck, dear William,” Alana said. She smiled at him without a hint of the silent pleading that used to mold her features. </p><p>“Uh…”</p><p>Alana’s companion’s glare deepened. She tightened her grasp on Alana’s hand. “If you have something to say, you can say it to our faces,” she said with a viciousness that Will couldn’t understand. </p><p>“Stand down, Margot,” Alana said kindly, turning to her and placing a hand on her thigh. “Will’s not thinking anything like that. He’s in the same way himself... Speaking of Hannibal,” Alana turned her gaze back to Will, “shouldn’t you be getting ready for tomorrow?” </p><p>“Or go literally anywhere other than here?” This was from Margot. </p><p>“I-” Will’s brain tried to process what he was seeing. </p><p>“Why are you here, Will?” Alana stood from the bed, brushing Margot’s hand against her cheek before letting go to move closer to Will. He was caught in her gaze, his childish and unthought-out reason for his being in her dorm immediately turning sour. Will’s reckless high dissipated steadily under Alana’s cool presence. He hung his head, coming back to himself like a plane back to the ground. </p><p>He remembered the plant! There, a fine reason for Will to be where he was. He rummaged around frantically in his bag, and produced the little houseplant. It seemed to glow in his hand, precious and naïve. “Here,” he said. </p><p>“Why would I want that?” Alana said. </p><p>“You don’t-” Didn’t girls like plants? </p><p>“Oh, not for me? Is it for Hannibal?” Alana presented an answer for Will with much greater ease than he would have managed. “Give it to him at the beginning of the dance.” Alana took the little plant from Will, and offered it a couple drops of water from a cup on her bedside table. She placed the plant carefully back atop Will’s bag and tapped him once on the shoulder. “You’ve got this, Will. We’ll all be waiting and ready. I know you know this already, but you’re doing the right thing. Now, and I mean this in the nicest way,” she looked over her shoulder at Margot, who sat with her legs tucked under her and her arms crossed over her chest, “it’s time for you to go.” </p><p>“But-” </p><p>Margot pushed off of the bed, moved smoothly beside Alana, and slammed the door in Will’s face. Will heard Alana’s laughter from behind the door even as he traced his steps back towards the exit. The sound of her happiness grated against his skin. </p><p>Two students had stalled halfway up the staircase, comparing notes against a textbook and blocking the way. Will pushed past them, jostling their book. One of them yelled at him to apologize, her voice, too, trailing after him and irritating him from inside out. He let the door slam behind him. The rainy, wet air hit him hard and he pulled his sleeves down over his fingers to warm his hands.</p><p>Will had lost control of everything: his university career was ruined, his future was shot, and now Alana — his only hope for companionship aside from Hannibal — had moved on without him. Nothing sat in Will’s grasp. Nothing was within his control, except for Hannibal. </p><p>He kicked a pebble across the sidewalk. His eyes and ears processed his surroundings at one hundred and ten percent, causing each sound to grate against his skin and each glow from the street lights above him to burn bright as the sun. A crowd of students passed by him and Will had to hold himself back from yelling at them to stop, just stop talking.  </p><p>He needed a sacrifice. Will would ensure that Hannibal’s ship sank alongside his, because that was in Will’s control, and because he was tired of being alone. Yes, thick, damning blood was hot on Hannibal’s hands, and for that reason, probably, he deserved whatever pain Will could bring him. Who cared? Who cared about that? Much more importantly, Hannibal loved Will like he’d never loved anything in his life, and that love was a brittle bridge over deadly waters. More importantly, misery loves company, pain festers to corruption, and delicate, brittle bridges are oh-so easy to snap.  </p><p>He scratched his nails into his palms as he walked, imagining the look on Hannibal’s face. Hannibal’s need for Will made him weak, and weakness could easily be exploited. Will wouldn’t fall over the edge of the cliff alone this time.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> *** </p>
</div>Hannibal woke up the next morning, the morning of the dance, with sunlight streaming over him. It jostled him gently out of sleep, slipping across his skin like silk. He cracked open the window, to feel purely the light’s touch, and was greeted by a warm breeze rattling the coloured leaves of the trees along the field. The air was chilled with Autumn’s bite, and the sunlight warmed only that which it touched.<p>Hannibal held his palms open into the light. Excitement coursed through his veins, brightened his thoughts and sharpened his vision. He felt as he so often did the morning before a hunt — as if he’d become bigger than any problem, rendering him untouchable. He’d felt this way as well the morning before his first meeting with Will in the library. He’d thought, that morning, that the seemingly undirected joy had been a fluke. Now Hannibal liked to think that it had been his intuition. </p><p>He moved away from his window and slid open the middle drawer of his dresser. His assortment of dress pants and slacks, folded into neat squares, greeted him silently. The pants that he'd wear tonight — a dusty just off-black pair, together with the matching tuxedo — were hanging in his closet, prepared. Hannibal slid his fingers along the side of the drawer, brushing against the wood until he touched material too soft to be any his clothes. Carefully, as if he was handling broken glass, Hannibal cupped his hand around the soft folds. He found himself relieved at its presence, although there was no reason why it would not still be here. He sat the bundle atop the dresser, and closed the drawer. </p><p>Outside his window, a bird sang three three ascending notes. The cloth fell away smoothly, like the motion of a waterfall. Sitting in the center of the cloth, revealed and newly in the light, was the delicately carved handle of a pocket knife, although you wouldn’t have recognized it as such at first. With the blade hidden, the knife could just as easily have been some oddly shaped decoration, perhaps the broken off end of an antique chair leg. The handle, carved out of wood and painted a robin’s egg blue, could best be described as art work; indeed, Hannibal had bought the knife from a man who would be better described as an artist than any type of weapon’s master.</p><p>Hannibal picked up the knife from its nest of cloth, remembering how it felt in his hand and how it hardly weighed enough to notice. He rubbed his thumb along the side of the handle. Images and patterns were sunk into the wood, brought to life with golden accents. Wilting flowers seemed to still under his gaze, and the antlers of a buck curled ceaselessly upwards. With a small movement from Hannibal, the blade flipped out. The sight of the knife, blade exposed, sent a numbness through Hannibal like the opposite of how his hand had felt under the sunlight. For years, no blood had touched this knife. Beautiful things were sometimes too painful to corrupt, and the memories attached to them too easy to darken. </p><p>He pushed the blade in and brought it out once more. It slid smoothly into place. The knife had been, Hannibal realized, waiting for Will. The buck watched from his place in the center of the wood, eyes dark gold, antlers ever reaching. He could be the monster from Will’s hallucinations, trapped now in a weapon that would bring power. Hannibal would gift the knife to Will, before the commencement of their agreement. A token of Hannibal’s gratitude. It would be something like coming home, to see this knife in Will's hands. </p><p>He placed the knife back down onto the dresser — he would be sure to pick it up on his way out — and walked to the kitchen. His steps bounced against the floor. It took him until arriving in the kitchen to notice that he was singing a song under his breath. Hannibal stopped himself, astounded; he’d never been one to sing, and yet something about this morning had brought it out of him. The sunlight had found its way through the kitchen windows as well, and pointed like a gentle spotlight towards the closest bar stool. The same bar stool where Will consistently chose to sit. </p><p>Hannibal imagined Will there now, drowsy from sleep with his hair soft and curly over his forehead. He would ask Hannibal for coffee, or if he didn’t Hannibal would make it anyways. They could sit in silence as it brewed, listening to the heating water and the birds outside. Will would tell Hannibal about what he had to do that day, and Hannibal would conclude with a reminder that no matter what the day threw towards them, they would still have each other come nighttime. Against all expectations, they had found each other, and would never again be alone.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>We seem to have arrived at a difference of opinion between our two main characters... </p><p>Also Alana got herself a hot gf and we stan.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Gestures</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It's the day of Hannibal's ball, and all of the invitees have arrived, Will among them. </p><p>Content Warning (SPOILERS):<br/>Descriptions of blood</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yay for still posting this on Sunday! However, it's the same deal for next week, so please be aware that the next chapter may take an extra day or two :) Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>3.5</b>
  </p>
</div>Too many bodies, all in layers of expensive clothing, circled Hannibal’s dream-brought-to-life. Skirts hung around the women in semi-circles, and the men’s all-black suits sunk into the shadows, their movements more-or-less to the rhythm of the piano music filtering through the thick air. A marble statue stretched its wiry arms towards the ceiling, exposing a finely muscled abdomen. One of the faceless dancing elites would be Hannibal, charming the crowd, smiling thinly and speaking impressively as those who are sure of themselves are prone to do.<p>A tray holding flutes of alcohol passed by Will, and he snagged the closest one before the waiter could disappear into the crowds once more. The windowless room provided no airflow, and Will’s suit had too many layers to be comfortable in the stale heat. He sipped the champagne robotically, the flute’s stem held gracelessly in his fist. He walked underneath one of the few stained-glass chandeliers — the only source of light, glowing honey-orange from within. They hung down like teardrops. </p><p>The ballroom of the titanic celebrated around Will, cheering and drinking and waiting for death. Hannibal had planned for an event to top all events, and a spectacle was what he would get. He’d sent out the invitations and had enticed an impressive amount of people into his hidden dance. Now all of these people would watch him fall from grace.   </p><p>Will breathed in between his teeth around the champagne flute and scanned the faces for Hannibal’s. They were meant to meet each other; Hannibal had promised they would be together. <i> You’ll be busy,</i> Will had said, sat at Hannibal’s kitchen table after finishing the dinner Hannibal had prepared for them — a type of soup, with a name that had sounded French. Their dishes still had had to be washed. <i>There’s going to be a whole room of people more interesting to talk to than me. </i> </p><p>Hannibal had placed both hands, clasped together, onto the table in front of him. Will couldn’t forget the lines on his fingers, circular around his knuckles, and the veins along his thumbs. Hannibal had leaned forwards over those hands, and said, <i> the only creatures there of any importance will be you, and me. </i> </p><p>Now Will knew that for him, too, that the only significant person in this room was Hannibal. </p><p>The dancers continued to turn around him. A man’s shoulder bumped against him and then the man’s hand was on the top of Will’s arm, apologizing. Will tried to say that it was fine, that it had been nothing, as his eyes looked past the stranger to search for Hannibal. <i>It’s so crowded </i>, he tried to say, <i> Next time it may be me bumping into you</i>. No words came out of Will’s mouth, and the man was gone. The pianist hit a somber chord and let it ring. </p><p>Will traced a circle of the room, one foot always kicking against the baseboard. Tonight, he wasn’t merely a participant in life, passing through, making no impact. Tonight he would be a god. The people around him lived in his control, and he alone would decide their fate. This power had for so long belonged to Hannibal, but tonight it belonged to them both. He rolled his shoulders back, fighting the part of himself that always wanted to shrink smaller. His foot bumped against something that was decidedly not a part of the wall and he turned to look. He saw himself. The smile that he’d taken to wearing, which he’d thought just an expression of joy, startled him for its insidious glare. His eyes shone with bloodlust. His body and face resembled so little of himself that he stumbled backwards. </p><p>He stood before the same mirror that had been present in the room the last time, now polished in its golden frame. Will braced one hand on the frame, looked at himself once more. This, his face, which he’d seen so many times, which he’d looked at and hated and looked at and loved. His eyes followed the line of his eyebrows and the corners of his lips, which had since dropped their evil smile and retaken their comfortable frown. Was this his face, still, even though he felt so much more on the inside? Somehow, his face should be different, now. This was not the face of someone capable of the messages that had been sent from Will’s phone, or of the incriminating comments that had been recorded on Jack’s microphone. He hadn’t spoken of himself while accusing of crimes. He’d told stories that hadn’t been his to tell. Will’s eyes should be crueler, sharper, not this projection of innocence. </p><p>There had always been a sadness underlying Will’s features, and he’d assumed that it was simply a physical manifestation of his state of being. But now, even while he prepared to take his hands and use them for himself, to take the control he’d never had, still his face reflected a sadness. That, he felt, wasn’t quite fair. Was this really his face? His body? They felt so foreign to him. Will closed one eye, waiting to see if the face in the mirror would do the same. He clenched his fist around the frame as the reflected face copied his movements. Who had he become? </p><p>He jumped, pulled dizzy back to reality by a tapping at his side. Felix, a small red-headed student, stood close enough that he was nearly on top of Will’s foot. His suit, borrowed from Jack, was very obviously not his size. </p><p>“Hello, Felix,” Will said slowly. </p><p>“Man, it’s stuffy in here,” Felix said, fanning himself with one hand. “Are you sweating?” </p><p>Will turned back to his reflection. He didn’t appear to be. Felix pushed against Will so that he could look into the mirror as well. </p><p>“What are you doing? Do you-” his face turned to whisper loudly against Will’s ear, “do you have eyes on Lecter yet?” </p><p>“Don’t, don’t say his name. Don’t say anything,” Will used his elbow to pry Felix off of him. “Go and do something else.” </p><p>Felix wrung his fingers around Will’s wrist. “Jack said I have to stay with you.” </p><p>“Jack doesn’t trust me, but you do, Felix. You trust me, yes?” </p><p>Felix nodded. He tightened his grasp on Will’s wrist and Will fought the need to pull his arm away. “Good. And Jack isn’t here, so now you’ll do as I say, not as he told you to. Go away — you’ll know when you need to help me.” </p><p>Will waited for Felix to leave him alone with the mirror and its skewed reflected world. He wanted to stare into the mirror until it showed him the truth, as the truth must be different than what he’d seen. Instead, Felix’s breath caught and he leaned closer to Will like a child looking for protection. The source of Felix’s fear touched its cold hand to Will’s neck, a possessive grip around its back. </p><p>“I’ve been awaiting your arrival, Will,” Hannibal’s voice at once calmed Will’s nerves and sent excitement swirling through him. “And this must be Felix.” Hannibal’s eyes looked Felix up and down, and glazed over. Will elbowed Felix away, out of Hannibal’s prying eyes, but it didn’t matter. Hannibal attached his hand to Will’s elbow and brought him across the floor before Felix could so much as blink. The red-headed boy fell away into the crowd. All Will knew was Hannibal’s hand on his arm and the pulse through his veins. </p><p>Hannibal led them effortlessly through the stream of people — the masses parted around him, always leaving space. Hannibal was superhuman, not a member of the crowd. He walked above them, knowing more, seeing more, and he’d chosen to reach down for Will and pull him up from the grimy, dusty ground. He’d invited Will to join him in a superior state of being. Each person who circled past them was only a shell of what they were. </p><p>Hannibal had left Will alone on this higher level for too long. Will started talking with the locals, and found his way around. He’d gotten comfortable, and now he was irritated. He wanted more. Once Will had made do with Hannibal, once he’d banished him down to the level Will had started from, all of the power would be his. Alana couldn’t be his, and his long-awaited future couldn’t be his. Even Hannibal, in that other way, couldn’t be his. Something had to be his.  </p><p>Will was positioned at Hannibal’s side, their arms touching. In each corner of the room the masses danced and moved and yet the space around them remained unmoving. Will breathed in and his lungs rose. Hannibal tracked the movement with hooded eyes. Once Will had caught his breath, they started forwards, movements slow and meaningful. Their steps fell at the same time, walking steadily, tracing a large circle of the room. </p><p>When Will had circled the room on his own before, he had been watching, waiting, like prey. Now, he and Hannibal moved as lions, prowling their territory. Each step hit the ground and stuck where it had landed, secure. No bodies moved into their path, everyone aware and accepting of their leadership. They entered the battlefield arm in arm. </p><p>Once their circle had been completed, the piano notes following their tempo, Hannibal stopped them. He pivoted to face Will, expectant.  </p><p>Will met Hannibal as he stepped forwards, and held his hand out for Hannibal to take. “You told me you wouldn’t let me look like a fool.” </p><p>“I intend to keep my word,” Hannibal took Will’s hand and stretched their joined grasp out beside them. Hannibal’s other hand hovered over Will’s waist, and Will copied the position. “Follow me,” Hannibal said, gently. The room became a blur around them. </p><p>Somehow, they began to waltz. It was smoother than Will would have expected, and quick as Hannibal pulled him around to face one side and then the other. At once Will’s eyes caught the white glow of the marble statue, and he would try to make out the faces of the dancers clustered around it, but before he was able to he’d be turned to face the other way, towards the grand piano and trying to find the musician on the bench. Thick piano chords encouraged their steps. </p><p>The music grew and grew, following a crescendo until it was louder than waves crashing on the ocean, louder than screaming from the edge of a cliff. Hannibal drove them on, faster and faster. Will couldn’t make sense of anything around them, and so he glued his eyes onto his dance partner instead. Hannibal’s eyes were closed. He led them blind. </p><p>The dancers closed in the space around them, the air growing hot with their body heat, and heavy with their sweat. The women's’ hairstyles, before perfectly in place, had come undone, spilling curling locks of hair over their shoulders and in front of their faces. The men’s expressions were all blank as a ghost, accented by wine-red lips. Will closed his eyes, too. </p><p>From somewhere across the room, Felix yelled out to Will. A crash, like the piano bench flipping over, echoed over the stomping and swishing of the dancers. Will felt Hannibal press his palm into his stomach to wield him backwards, and Will’s head threw back against the wall. He opened his eyes to see Hannibal standing over him, standing taller than anyone else in the room, with his teeth barred. He held a knife in his hand, but his target didn’t seem to be directed at anyone in particular. He looked blankly into the crowd. </p><p>Will blinked, clearing the black dots from his vision. The party attendees were beginning to notice the scene; heads turned and dancers stilled. Felix waved frantically from the other side of the room, motioning to the entryway: the crash had been the door bursting open, banging against the wall. Jack stood in the doorway. Will repositioned himself to his full height, shoved his shoulder into Hannibal and fought the knife from his hand. If Jack got to Hannibal first, it would be Jack’s doing, locking Hannibal away. Will needed control. </p><p>Hannibal’s fingers fell away from the knife easily, as if in defeat, or surprise. His eyes flicked across Will’s face. The knife’s handle shone a dusty blue colour, and felt soft in Will’s grasp like wood. Despite these oddities, the blade stuck out sharply. It would work fine as a weapon. The pianist had stopped playing, and a deathly quiet filled the room.</p><p>“It’s too late,” Will said, turning himself so that his back was to the crowd. He stood squarely in front of Hannibal, and pressed the tip of the blade to Hannibal’s abdomen, where it touched lightly to the fabric of his waistcoat. Footsteps pounded across the floor — that would be Jack and his crew, ready to chain Hannibal’s wrists and future. Will drew the knife back, preparing to bring it in for real. His conscience took his gaze up to Hannibal’s face one last time.  </p><p>Hannibal’s eyes had softened in a  way that Will hadn’t expected. He’d prepared himself for rage, or anger. Instead, Hannibal looked at him with something just off of disappointment, just this side of heartbreak. Will almost didn’t notice Hannibal’s hand moving into his pocket and pulling back out with something that glinted silver. He touched Will’s cheek with his empty hand. </p><p>Will made a soft noise of pain as Hannibal brought his second knife into Will’s side, and his breath caught in his throat. He slumped forwards, against Hannibal’s chest as the room surged towards him. He felt Hannibal’s hands brush once through his hair, before his senses cut out.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> *** </p>
</div>Hannibal dropped Will’s body onto the concrete ground, or would have, if it hadn’t been for the way Will’s head lolled to the side, resting against Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal bent his knees to place Will onto the floor, leaning his back against the wall so that he half-sat, his unconscious form stooped and crooked. A cloud of dust blew into the air around him.<p>Will’s side was bleeding. That was, Hannibal supposed, bound to happen when someone was stabbed. Hannibal took a turn around the room as he undid his tie. The dark basement walls secured their privacy. The decaying bricks, in their ritualistic circular shape at the center of the room, remained ominous and watchful. Hannibal could almost smell Charles’ blood from when he’d poured it down into the well, and from when it had been painted across the walls. The message, the warning of a marred trust, took a new, truer shape in his mind. </p><p>
  <i>Fresh blood has awoken the whilom king.<br/>
Be wary; the newest trust is marred </i>
</p><p>In the end, it had been Will’s trust that had been the newest. Perhaps it had been Will, too, the awoken king. He’d just appeared at his coronation. </p><p>Hannibal bent down in front of Will, his tie now undone and in his hand. He opened the bottom three buttons of Will’s shirt, and lifted it high enough to expose the cut. He pressed his tie, folded the tie twice lengthwise, against Will’s wound to slow the bleeding. </p><p>Will had become so much more than he’d been before, so much stronger. Not strong enough, though, to survive this wound unhelped. Not that anyone would be. Hannibal could leave Will here, hidden below flights and flights of stairs, hopelessly alone. Even if Will gained enough consciousness to scream, nobody would hear him. His body, cold and losing blood, would be too weak to carry him back into the world of the living. </p><p>Will’s spirit would join Charles’ in the world of the chained dead that crawled this forgotten space. </p><p>And Hannibal would be free. </p><p>And Hannibal would be alone. </p><p>Will’s blood dotted through the material of the tie. Hannibal adjusted Will’s position, pulling him closer so that he’d have a better angle on his wound. He hadn’t thought to let the knife go so deep, but caught in the moment he’d had little control of his actions. It was a small miracle that Hannibal had held himself back from multiple counts of murder. In the end, he’d only done what had been necessary to get himself and Will, in his arms, out of the library. </p><p>Hannibal had recognized the boy, Felix, as soon as he’d seen him walk timidly through the door into the ball. He’d been one of the more vocal members of Jack’s amateur investigators, set up to watch Hannibal's every move. Hannibal should have dealt with him as soon as he’d arrived. He’d been too interested in finding Will, bringing Will into this world of the past, into the rebirth of moments long left behind. He hadn’t thought to wonder why Will had invited Felix. It could have been any number of coincidences. </p><p>He’d been too forgiving, too thoughtless. Will’s grasp on the knife, and its blade pointed forwards, had been a call back to reality. Too little too late. </p><p>Hannibal’s flashlight, standing up beside Will, teetered and fell over, thumping onto the concrete. Its beam of light fell away from Will, and shone towards the circle of bricks instead. It caught light in between the cracks in the floor, and illuminated the specks of dust that flew through the air. Hannibal stretched to set it back up while keeping one hand over Will’s wound. Will was helpless, like this. Utterly dependent.</p><p> Hannibal had always considered it a vice, the dependency on another human. He’d never found much value in it; he could do better on his own than he’d ever been able to do with any other. If it had been up to him — which it hadn’t, no decisions to do with Will had been made with the rational part of Hannibal’s brain — he would never have gotten so close. Too close. </p><p>Will’s eyelids fluttered but didn’t open. Hannibal kept his hand pressed to his tie over Will’s cut until the bleeding stopped, and then he sat silent still, waiting for Will to awaken. If he was going to kill Will, it would be no use to kill him until he’d awoken. It was a coward’s move, to kill someone as they slept. It was also, Hannibal supposed, a coward’s move to stab someone in the back. </p><p>It had been too much, to imagine this would go at all differently. Hannibal had been brought into the world fully formed, not in need of anyone else. He’d thought Will might have been the same. </p><p>It was better that he knew now that he’d been wrong. </p><p>Standing from the stooped body, Hannibal removed his jacket. He let it fall over Will’s chest, hiding his red wound and covering the gentle up-down of his chest. Will’s head had fallen awkwardly against the dust-covered wall behind him. A layer of the dust clung to his cheek, colouring him grey and adding to his drained, lifeless appearance. </p><p>Hannibal played with his knife in his hands. This knife was a solid, reflective silver made of steel. He’d brought it for himself, as the blue-handled knife was to be given to Will. That beautiful knife was still, presumably, in the dance hall where Will had dropped it when he’d fallen unconscious. It was a shame to lose it, but for the best. </p><p>Hannibal placed his silver knife between his fingers, his hold light and flexible. He stepped beside Will, and placed the fingers of his empty hand around Will’s chin, lifting it so that, were Will’s eyes open, they would have made eye contact. </p><p>Hannibal brushed his thumb along Will’s cheekbone, hollowed and ghostly. With the pad of his thumb, he pulled the skin under Will’s eye down until his eye slivered open. His pupil strayed upwards, unseeing. “<i>The most sunlike of the senses</i>,” Hannibal quoted, “although no light shines from you now.” </p><p>Hannibal traced the blunt edge of the knife over the curve of Will’s eyebrow, and down the side of his face. He let Will’s head fall back against the wall, and walked two steps away. Hannibal rolled up his dress shirt’s left sleeve, and with the silver knife, he cut a thin slit into the meaty part of his palm. </p><p>As if a child with finger paints, Hannibal drew his pointer finger through the blood that seeped out of his cut, coating his finger as well as the shallow cut would allow. He squeezed his hand into a fist to coax more blood out. Once satisfied with his paint, Hannibal approached the center of the dark room. He pocketed the silver knife, and used one foot to sweep some of the dust off of a circle of the floor. </p><p>Hannibal bent his knees and brought himself close to the floor. He thought of the old medical book, and the page of it he’d used to keep Will’s note safe. Not even between the pages of that book, between the too-long veins, the misshapen ventricles, near his paper heart, had the note been safe. Love was never safe. </p><p>With his blood coated finger, Hannibal drew a large circle onto the floor. His finger scratched against the uneven cement, his line skewed and imperfect. He continued, seeing not what was in front of him, but instead the page of his book as if it were laid on the floor before him. </p><p>All that he wanted to say to Will quite literally bled out of him. He traced the too-long arteries and then drew out the misshapen ventricles. He left his heart, ugly and tainted, for Will to find. When the painting was complete, Hannibal stood and tried to wipe his fingers clean. He left his coat, and he left his flashlight, and he left his heart behind to ascend the stairs back into the world of light and the living.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hannibal's quote about the 'most sunlike sense' is a (rather oddly placed) quote from Plato's <i>Republic</i>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Goodbyes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Will and Hannibal reconcile after their bloody betrayal.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b> 3.6 </b>
  </p>
</div><p>Hannibal had climbed three steps off the ground when Will caught up to him. Will held his hand pressed to his abdomen, right where the cut still stung him. His posture was bent, to avoid stretching that area. His other hand grasped at the wall, at the railing. He tried to pry support from the slippery, uncaring basement walls. </p><p>“What did you do?” Will asked, breathing between the syllables. He craned his head to look into Hannibal’s eyes without stretching the cut, asking Hannibal wordlessly for clarity. Hannibal, though, was only all that he had ever been: a danger. </p><p>“I thought that it would make you understand,” Hannibal said. He had turned to face down the stairs when he’d heard Will lifting himself bodily from the floor in the other room. He’d been taking slow steps up the stairs, two a minute, one a minute, not really going anywhere. Leaving Will alone would mean leaving Will to die, and that wasn't a viable option, as much as Hannibal wished it could be. Leaving Will would mean saying goodbye to a part of himself, as well. “Do you understand, Will?” </p><p>Will looked to Hannibal  as a child looks to their parent when they are still young, before they realize that the inescapable human flaw which exists in all of us is there in that person, too. He looked to him as if Hannibal could do him no harm, as he bled from the outcome of Hannibal's lost control. Hannibal, for his part, couldn't bring himself to fault Will for their shattered trust, broken like glass all over the dance floor. They were two wounded animals, unable to comprehend that the wounds had not come from within. </p><p>In many ways, Hannibal had betrayed himself to Jack and ruined his own reputation. In many other ways, Will had stabbed himself, tonight. They were themselves and they were each other, hurting, hurtful creatures.</p><p>“On the floor, in that room, was that my blood?” Will tried to step closer, or he thought to do it, a twitch of his muscles giving away his intentions. The steps were too much effort to climb to reach Hannibal, or his want to step forwards died out before it could be acted upon. Either way, he stayed where he was. </p><p>Hannibal held his hand out to him palm up, to show him the thin cut that glowed red in the flesh. <i>My blood</i>, Hannibal presented. <i>I bled for you. </i></p><p>“And you drew a-” Will turned his head back towards the room, searching through the thick, cold walls and dark space for the understanding which eluded him. “I don’t know what it was, Hannibal. It’s too dark to see much.” </p><p>“What <i>do</i> you know, Will?” He knew enough without the full truth. He was too clever to not have realized by now. The problem was that Will didn't fully want to know. </p><p>“You brought me here, and you tried to fix me,” Will said, still searching. “I can guess what happened. Why am I still alive?" He raked one hand along his tired face, closing his eyes with his fingers pressing into his temple. “I wanted — want — to hurt you. I’ve given you a reason to kill me. Isn’t that all you need? Isn’t that why you killed the others?” </p><p>Will wasn’t the same as the others. He didn’t need any guidance to understand this. </p><p>Will let out a breath, and amended his statement. “You will never kill me, Hannibal. You'll never be able to bring yourself to do it.” </p><p>“Then you do know.” </p><p>“That is all that I know. There must be more.” </p><p>“Love does not have to be so complicated as you seem to presume.” </p><p>And that was the end of it, of course — Hannibal's cards metaphorically on the table. Will knew this too, deep down, but had been afraid to say it. Now, he'd already lost all that it was possible to lose. </p><p>In his pained, newly-awake state, Will’s eyes blinked slowly up as he realized which part of the sentence had surprised him. He took the previously-deliberated step upwards, and then stepped one stair past Hannibal, hobbling needlessly with each step. Maybe he'd try and get himself all the way out of the building, without so much as saying goodbye. </p><p>He stopped once he’d climbed two stairs more. Their positions had become reversed, Will above and Hannibal below. Hannibal mirrored Will's stance, pressing his injured hand onto his own side in the same position as Will held his wound. Two wounded animals, trying to see themselves reflected back. </p><p>“What do you know of love?” Will said lightly. He spoke of love with so little conviction, so little significance. No one had ever sounded so careless when speaking of love. </p><p>“My awareness begins and ends with you.” </p><p>“Are you,” he braced himself against the wall, and dropped his eyes. “Hannibal, are you in love with me?” </p><p>Hannibal had said he wouldn't lie to Will. Despite this, despite some desperate urge to let everything out into the open, he still could not tell him the truth. In the most pressing, debilitating way Hannibal had ever experienced, he could not tell Will the truth. He removed his bloodied hand from where it had left a red mark on his coat, and held it halfway up to Will. “Ask me to save you,” he said, as he had said before. </p><p>“Will you stay with me until I wake up?” Will asked importantly. </p><p>Hannibal said that he would stay, for however long Will needed. He said it quickly, unthinkingly, and was glad to have not wasted any time, for no sooner were the words out of his mouth than had Will fallen against the wall, hand trailing after his body as he sunk onto the stairs. His wound had once more begun to bleed.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> *** </p>
</div>It had darkened outside by the time Will and Hannibal stumbled out of the English Literature building. Hannibal’s arm was wound around Will’s waist, supporting him as it had all the way up the stairs. Will had wanted to push him off, at first, out of some instinct to take care of himself. He’d given up trying to support his own weight halfway up the first staircase. That room where Will had woken up, dark and grimy and smelling of blood, had been so far below ground that Will had thought they’d never reach the surface.<p>Will tipped his head back as Hannibal guided him out across the grass. A sky full of stars shone down at him, not as bright as LA, and not as vast, but dizzying all the same. He slid his gaze from one side of the sky to the other, head falling toward Hannibal’s shoulder. </p><p>“Do you see the moon?” </p><p>Hannibal caught his breath, and said, “new moon.” </p><p>They moved across the field alone. Will wondered what would happen if anyone were to see them, to recognize them. Hannibal had stabbed him in front of about thirty people; if what Will had told Jack before wasn’t enough to lock him away, then that surely would be. Will, for his part, had apparently bled out in that room. He wondered if people thought he was dead, and if they had fought to save his ‘body’ from Hannibal’s grasp. </p><p>A twig snapped a little ways away from them, and Will snapped his head over to catch whoever had made the noise. In the low light, he saw only fallen leaves blowing lazy along the ground. Hannibal adjusted his arm around Will, and pulled him gently back on their path. </p><p>“What if they see us?” </p><p>“By 'they', Will, do you mean Jack and Alana, or some part of the school faculty?” </p><p>“Any of them. All of them, whoever,” Will’s hand ghosted over the cut on his side. It hurt, worse than spraining his ankle, worse than breaking his shoulder. It was the best thing he’d ever felt; he never wanted the pain to go away. “I’ve given them reason enough to take you away.” And then, because he should have said it so many times already, “I’m sorry.” </p><p>Hannibal spread his fingers around Will’s uninjured side. For each step he took, Will took two smaller ones. “I do not condemn you for making moves in self-preservation. When one has grown up in a way which emphasizes the need to care for yourself against a cruel world, it is difficult to drop the tendency of placing your needs above all others.” </p><p>They arrived across the field and their footsteps tapped against the sidewalk.They passed grey-stone buildings, bracketed by wide rhododendrons. Will wanted to tell Hannibal to lower his face, to move his hair over his forehead, anything to hide him even slightly from the eyes that watched them through illuminated windows. It was Will’s fault that Hannibal was in danger. It couldn’t also be Will’s fault that he got caught. </p><p>“Don’t forgive me,” Will said. </p><p>“I didn’t.” </p><p>“No, I know,” Will watched his feet move underneath him. The tops of his shoes were spotted with his own blood. “Don’t make excuses for me. I made a bad choice, and if you try to play it off like I was mistaken, or misled… I wasn’t.” Will dug his heels into the ground so Hannibal had to stop moving. They should keep moving, get out from under the streetlight which broadcasted all they did to anyone hidden in the shadows. Will needed them to stop walking anyways.</p><p>Hannibal's gaze darted to Will's cut, looking for a physical reason why Will had stopped their slow procession. Will caught Hannibal's eyes with his own, and brought his attention back to their conversation. “I wanted to destroy you.” </p><p>Hannibal moved his bracing hand to Will’s shoulder and stepped back so they were a more reasonable distance apart. Will shrugged off Hannibal’s hand. If he wanted to go, he shouldn't feel anything holding him here. </p><p>Hannibal blinked. He said, “did you forget what we spoke of before?” </p><p>Will remembered waking up on a ground hard and cold and damp. He’d found Hannibal’s jacket on top of him — Hannibal’s, because it had smelled like him — and he’d immediately brought it around his shoulders. He’s raised himself shakily to standing, reminded with every move of the hole that had been carved below his ribs. He’d stumbled towards the door, and had felt his foot slip in something viscous drawn into a strange shape over the floor. </p><p>“We spoke of love. Can it still be love, that I’ve wanted to bring you to your knees?”</p><p>“Can it still be love, Will, that I’ve enjoyed your suffering? We continue to be mirrors, or perhaps more precisely the ocean and the sky. My actions are distorted like on the water's surface, and reflected back by you.” </p><p>Will tried to say that his question still hadn’t been answered, but all that came out of his mouth was a muffled breath in pain as fire sprouted anew from his cut. Hannibal pressed their sides together once more, and led Will the rest of his way to his dorm. </p><p>The door was ajar when they arrived at Will’s room. Will nudged it open, steeling himself to see Chris, or some member of staff boxing away his things. He pushed Hannibal off of him as the door swung open, hiding Hannibal against the wall. Alana sat up off of Will’s bed and stepped towards him. She had his hoodie grasped in her hand. </p><p>“Will? I thought — Jack said- ” </p><p>“You can’t be here.” Will started forwards, to take his sweater from her hands. He swayed to the side, and put a knee on the corner of his bed to steady himself. </p><p>Alana offered him water from a glass balanced on his bedpost. Will didn’t have the energy to tell her that it had been there for months. “Let me take you to get help,” she said.</p><p>“Why are you here?” Will sat on his bed to avoid Alana’s hand when she made to look at his wound. He leveled his gaze at her, saying: talk, don’t touch. </p><p>“I thought you were dead, or at least with him. Good enough as dead.” </p><p>Will pulled at a loose string in his dress pants. The dance, the reason he was in them, felt like a distant memory. “I shouldn’t have said what I did about Hannibal. It wasn’t fair.” </p><p>“You only told us the truth, didn’t you?” Alana lowered herself onto the bed beside Will, a careful distance away. She folded Will’s sweater unevenly, and smoothed it over her lap. </p><p>“It still wasn’t my place.” Will said. He placed his hands together, and squeezed his fingers. “I feel more alive when I'm with him, for better or for worse. Isn't that enough? It's not pretty, but isn't it enough?”</p><p>Alana sighed. “All I know is the difference between how I feel with Margot, and how I felt with you. She’s the first thing on my mind when I wake up, and the first person who I think to tell my secrets, and it doesn’t bother me. It did with you, to have you taking up so much space in my mind.” She placed Will’s hoodie between them on the bed. “I’d let her take over my whole mind, if I could. I would let her become me.” </p><p>“You’re not going to see me again, Alana. Not for a long time, at least.” Will turned his head towards the closed door, where he could imagine Hannibal’s ear near the wall, listening. </p><p>“You're leaving because of him, aren't you. He’s gotten in your head.” </p><p>“You said that that’s how you know it’s real.” </p><p>“Margo's never stabbed me just below the ribs.” </p><p>Will stood, and offered Alana his hand to help her off of the bed. “Tell Margot I say hi.” </p><p>“I’ll have to remind her who you are.” Although Will had offered to help Alana, it was she who helped him to the door, and opened it for herself. </p><p>“What will you say to Jack?” </p><p>“I’ll tell him that Hannibal is a bad influence.” Alana turned her head to look to her side. “Hello, Hannibal.”</p><p>“Good evening, Alana,” Hannibal’s voice, from outside the door. Alana squeezed Will’s hand amiably, and led herself away from their room. Will had no doubt that she would give them at least until the morning. </p><p>Will ducked back into his room, and tugged his battered suitcase from underneath his bed. He flipped it open, and stood back up by leaning heavily on to the bedposts. He turned to collect his clothes, but was stopped by Hannibal’s hands on either side of him. </p><p>“Let me,” Hannibal said. Will hesitated, but realizing it would be much faster for Hannibal to pack up his stuff, lowered himself onto his bed to watch. He made use of his hands by pulling the pillowcase off of his pillow, although both objects were his and could have been packed together. </p><p>He hadn’t made many memories in this room. Chris had once asked Will why he didn’t switch to a larger dorm, and Will had replied that his scholarship hardly covered this size. Will had returned the question, and Chris had moved off of his bed to stand in the center of their little room. He’d reached his arms out to either side, and by stretching his fingers as far as they would go, had touched the walls on either side. “Now where else could I do that?” He'd said.</p><p>That conversation had been in the first couple of weeks of the school year, back when they had both still kept their belongings confined to their own sides of the room. Back before Chris had met (and broken up with) Michelle, and before Will had told him about Alana. Will had pictured himself and Chris staying in their shared dorm until graduation, telling stories in few words before going to sleep each night, and trying to help each other with homework even though they studied in different faculties. </p><p>It was an odd feeling, not being able to say goodbye to Chris. </p><p>Will caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and looked up to see if Chris had returned in time after all. Will had no idea where he had been staying at night. He could only imagine he’d somehow scared Chris off. Of course, the moment was only Hannibal. He’d begun to pack up Will’s pants. As he slung a couple pairs over his arm, something metallic flew out of a pocket. It hit the ground like a tornado falling in on itself, making a show as if it knew that both Hannibal and Will were watching it intently. </p><p>Hannibal bent to retrieve it. He let the pile of Will’s clothes fall from his arms and onto the top of Will’s half-packed suitcase, and took time to straighten the object out over his palm. Its shiny chain wouldn’t stay in one place. </p><p>The necklace. Hannibal held it out towards Will, silent. The odd pendant, dull white like a skull, seemed to whisper in the absence of noise. It made the sound of a snake hissing, or wind chimes. It called for Will to accept his fate. </p><p>Will nodded his head down, presenting as best he could the back of his neck to Hannibal. The chain was slipped around his collarbones; Hannibal’s fingers brushed the skin at the back of Will’s neck as he did up the clasp.</p><p>Hannibal stepped back and Will raised his head. He brought one hand up to adjust the pendant. “I can't promise that there isn't still a part of me that wants to see you knocked down a peg. There's a part of me that hates you.”  </p><p>Hannibal refolded a pair of Will's pants so that they fit better into his suitcase. "And yet you anticipate that you'll be joining me on my escape." </p><p>"I don't go to school here anymore, and you've been exposed as a criminal. We both need somewhere to go. Do you want to go with me?" </p><p>Hannibal had half-folded one of Will's T-Shirts. He stopped and reopened the fold, holding it in front of him to look at its front. The T-Shirt bore the name of Will's high school track team. It was well worn, and had a hole in the neck. Hannibal clenched his fingers into the material. He looked close to crushing it into dust.</p><p>"Hannibal-?" </p><p>"Let me know you." </p><p>"I - You do." </p><p>"Stay with me. Let me learn every part of you." He released his hold on the T-shirt. "All else is unimportant. Will you devote yourself to me?" </p><p>Will leaned forward and caught Hannibal's shoulder. He pulled him up, so that Hannibal stood facing him. </p><p>"Look. Look," he touched the pendant. "I'm wearing the necklace. I'm bleeding and you're bleeding and I'm wearing the damn necklace." He traced a finger across the line of his cut, hidden under his shirt. "It sounds like something you would say, that love and hate are not opposite emotions."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Please note there are only one or two chapters left :) As always, thank you for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Specialties</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The departure. They both smile at least once in this one, you guys!</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content Warning (SPOILERS):<br/>One line descripting a wound</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b> 3.7 </b>
  </p>
</div>Will leaned against Hannibal’s dining table as the latter pulled out a chair and turned it around. He motioned for Will to sit. Will’s head had begun to spin as they’d ascended the stairs to Hannibal’s dorm. He wanted no more than to sit down.<p>Still, he said, “we could go and do this in your bathroom, Hannibal. I don’t want to get blood on your furniture.” A glance back at the trail of scarlet droplets following from the doorway let him know it was too late to save himself entirely. “Any more than I already have, at least.”</p><p>Hannibal led Will to the chosen chair and sat him down. “This will only take a moment, and we’ll be on our way. I fear I may have let my knife cut you deeper than I’d intended.” </p><p>“It’s a good sign, I suppose, that you were at least thinking about how much you wanted to stab me.” Will motioned will one hand across his chest. “And that you didn’t choose anywhere more substantial.” The chair under Will anchored him steadily to the ground. He focused on taking air in between his lips. </p><p>Hannibal walked two steps to the kitchen, and pulled a black bag from a shelf. “Yes, the placement was a fortunate decision.” </p><p>Out of the bag came a bottle of antiseptic and a packet of gauze. Will, for the first time that night, prepared himself to see the wound — he’d been imagining it as jagged and gnarly, as if ripped into him by an animal. He lifted the bottom of his shirt, which was so covered in blood there was no way it would be properly washed out. </p><p>The cut turned out to be smaller than he’d imagined. No valiant, awe-inspiring war wound. Across his side, nearly parallel to his lowest rib, the cut was only about an inch and a half wide. Dry blood coloured a deep red-brown clung to the edges, and the skin circling the wound transitioned from a very pale white to a flushed red. It looked like it should hurt less than it did. </p><p>Hannibal’s expression didn’t give any insight into whether he was worried or pleased with the state of the wound. He wet a gauze pad with the antiseptic and began to wipe it clean. </p><p>“The cut is not bleeding currently, however, it has already shown a tendency to stop and start again. I’ll bring supplies to stop bleeding should it start again. Should you need stitches, I have-” </p><p>“It was a dangerous choice to stab me and not to kill me.” Will's lips were dry. They pulled uncomfortably as he spoke.</p><p>“You mean to suggest the principal that ‘any injury done to a man must be such that there is no need to fear his revenge’? I do believe there is a slight advantage for your survival in this case.” Hannibal had finished cleaning the cut, and when he withdrew the gauze it was bathed in red. </p><p>“Is the advantage that my death would be as much my revenge as anything I could do to you while alive?” </p><p>“You are too clever for your own good, Will.” Hannibal said. He bent his head to look through his medical bag. </p><p>“So basically what you’re admitting to is that I have you in the palm of my hand.” Will said, his mouth falling lazily into a grin. </p><p>Hannibal, who had been fitting a bandage over Will’s cut, let his knuckle press into the wound. Will hissed in pain. </p><p>“I wouldn’t go so far.” Hannibal finished dressing the cut, his hands cool against Will’s heated skin. He stood to collect his things, and Will watched him without offering to help. The way that Hannibal liked to keep his things organized, Will was sure that he would do more harm than good trying to help pack up. </p><p>Their future was so open. It fell away from them like the vast ocean off the back of a ferry boat. What lay under the moving water, waiting to capture them as they fell, there was no way to know. Will had run from this university once before, but LA wouldn’t be the same as wherever he went with Hannibal, because there would be no truth to discover, no life to come back to. Once they left, they would be gone for good. </p><p>Will considered texting his father. His phone was in the front pocket of his backpack, within easy reach. He could let him know that the scholarship was gone now, and leave it to his father to follow up, to ask what that meant for Will. </p><p>He didn’t move to get his phone. The news would make its way around sooner or later. Might as well take the present moment as it was, strings free. </p><p>If he hadn’t already been to LA, already been through the process of telling himself it was okay to exist only for the moment, to exist in the way that he wanted to, Will didn’t know if he’d be able to leave with Hannibal. Even as it was, a part of him still itched to run to the counsellor's office and beg for his spot back, beg for some way to get back on scholarship. He’d heard stories of people quitting school for love, and he’d always thought them crazy. </p><p>Love was not a definite thing. Love was not a secure enough ground to stake your whole life on. </p><p>But then, what was? He could put his time in at school, graduate, and still struggle to find a good career. He could fall asleep at the wheel and die within the week. Nothing in life was constant enough to stake your life on. That was both the problem and the only solution, really. That meant that you got to choose how to live your life. Every path has the same possibility for failure, and so every choice has an equal chance for success. </p><p>“Hannibal,” Will called into the room. </p><p>“Will?” Hannibal showed up once more in the dining room, holding two small suitcases, one  in either hand. They were a matching deep blue colour. “Is there an issue?” </p><p>“No. I’m just happy that we’re leaving.” </p><p>Hannibal’s face made an odd attempt at a smile, as if he was trying to but didn’t quite understand why. </p><p>“If you’d asked me at the end of last year where I’d see myself in 6 months, I wouldn’t ever have said this. Yet somehow I’m glad this is how things turned out.” </p><p>“I’m glad too, Will.” Now the smile turned to something closer to genuine. “Please allow me a few more minutes to pack, and then we will be on our way.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> *** </p>
</div>They left as the sun’s first rays cracked over the skyline. Hannibal had noticed his breath lingering in the air around him as he’d led Will into the car. Here on the hill, at least, the seasons were changing. Winter’s cold fingers were clawing their way over the land. He thought, as he started his car and waited for the engine to warm, that perhaps he would take them somewhere sunny, even by the ocean.<p>“What is your opinion of the beach, Will?” Hannibal rubber his fingers over the steering wheel to chase away the cold. </p><p>“Sandy. Wet. Nice, though. I saw the beach in LA.” </p><p>Will’s head was ducked towards his lap as he sorted through something in his backpack. Their suitcases were in the back, and Hannibal had tried to load Will’s backpack there as well to give him space for his legs. Will had refused. </p><p>Hannibal shifted the car into drive and brought it onto the road. He didn’t mind that Will’s attention was elsewhere. Although Will was missing the gorgeous strands of pink clouds reaching up from the rising sun, and the way that the frost on the tree branches shone a brilliant white when hit by the morning's light. </p><p>“Have you been awake in time for the sunrise recently, Will?” </p><p>Again, Will did not look up to answer the question. He mumbled a ‘no’ and continued with the noises of shuffling things about. </p><p>Hannibal brought them through the school gates, mercifully left open, and started down the hill. He thought of the first time they’d met face to face, when they’d been in the same position and in the same car. The first time Hannibal had been given the opportunity of witnessing one of Will’s encephalitis-induced hallucinations. He could have brought up the memory with Will, but he wasn’t ready to watch Will dismiss it as he’d done the previous questions. </p><p>They drove beneath trees coloured red and orange, vibrant with the song of autumn. A wind blew quickly above them, carrying with it dark, foreboding clouds.  Once the sun had risen over the hills so that Hannibal had to squint as he drove towards it, the clouds had reached it. They moved to block out the sunlight, darkening the horizon. The night had seemingly ended only to return once more. </p><p>Will looked through the windshield at the darkened horizon. He appeared to grimace, pulled his sweater further around his shoulders, and ducked his head once more. </p><p>Hannibal alternated from watching the road to watching Will. He thought himself discrete, but Will was still observant even when he didn’t act like it. </p><p>“A focus on your driving, Hannibal, would be appreciated.” </p><p>Hannibal tightened his fists around the steering wheel and feigned innocence, his eyes trained on the black cement and yellow lines before them. What could he do to keep Will’s attention? Perhaps he’d been too quick to bandage the cut — Will had been more appreciative of him while he’d been hurting. </p><p>Hannibal led his car faithfully on. They were, as expected, the only people on the road, isolated from the rest by the thick forests bordering the road and the hovering grey clouds, hardly higher up than the tops of the trees. The clock on the dashboard ticked on: seven AM, seven-fifteen, seven-thirty. </p><p>At around seven-forty-five, when they’d nearly reached the first little town the highway took them through, Will let his backpack drop off of his lap with a thump and leaned his head back against the headrest. He moaned a sound of defeat. </p><p>“I don’t think we thought this through, Hannibal. I mean, obviously we didn’t think it through, but- really. How are we going to afford anywhere to stay? Food to eat? I’ve two hundred and fifteen in my backpack. That was all the cash I had with me. My bank card isn’t much better. I don’t know how… Why are you smiling like that?” Will had turned to face Hannibal, his hand braced on the center console.</p><p>“Is that what you’ve been doing this whole time? Counting your money and checking your bank statements?” Hannibal couldn’t help the sneer that had worked its way onto his face. His anger melted easily away as he forgave Will for ignoring him. He’d forgotten that he and Will, despite their similarities, had come from completely different worlds. “There is no need to worry, Will.” </p><p>“You say that, but unless you’ve neglected to tell me that you’re some sort of millionaire, I don’t think you mean it.”</p><p>“I said I’d take care of you. Don’t you trust me?” </p><p>Will let out a short laugh. “It’s not a lack of trust so much as a sense of rationality.” Will stretched his arms towards the ceiling and let them fall back to hold around the headrest. “I guess we’ll start with my savings, and when they run out, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” </p><p>“Your lack of restraint to spend your savings, Will, is surprising.” </p><p>“Is it? I don’t even know what’s like me and what isn’t anymore  .” </p><p>“Don’t forget yourself entirely. You had built your mind so beautifully. It would be a shame make any drastic changes.” </p><p>“Now that,” Will pointed one finger into Hannibal’s chest. “Is a creepy thing to say. I’m going to try and get some sleep. I’m tired — something about not getting much rest because I was bleeding to death. Wake me up when we get to wherever we’re stopping first.” He toed his shoes off and drew his feet onto the seat, curling towards the window. Hannibal had to restrain himself from forgetting the road entirely in favor of watching Will sleep. </p><p>He wanted to let Will sleep forever, to spend the day watching his chest rise and fall, his face pressed into the space between the seat and the car door. Unfortunately, Will was awake again within minutes. </p><p>Hannibal had dragged his eyes back to the road just in time to see something small and yellowish run out from between the trees. He slammed his foot onto the brake, the force tossing Will forwards. He awoke with a gasp, presumably from his seatbelt catching against his lungs. </p><p>The car swerved side to side, then came to a jittering halt. Will started to ask why, but Hannibal couldn’t wait to explain what had happened to Will. He opened his door and leaped out, moving quickly around the front of the car to see if he could spot the creature from the forest. He doubted it would have stuck around, and may be long gone by now. </p><p>As if turned out, the forest creature had been in no hurry to run and hide. It sat before the halted car, tail wagging against the ground and head tilted assumingly. Hannibal narrowed his eyes, said a polite hello, and returned to speak to Will through his open door. </p><p>“Your dog is here.” </p><p>“Huh?” Will was rubbing his face where the car had pressed an indent into his cheek from his sleeping position. </p><p>“I believe you called it Winston?” </p><p>Will’s eyes widened with understanding, and he struggled to undo his seatbelt while at the same time opening his car door. Once he’d freed himself, Will ran forwards to greet the dog. Hannibal watched him through the windshield as he threw his arms around it, pressing his face into its fur. He kneeled by the dog, his lips moving as he conversed with it. He scratched the dogs ears, and laughed as if it had told a joke. </p><p>Their reunion was lasting too long. Hannibal flicked his headlights on and off. Will’s mouth shaped the words, ‘yeah, yeah’. He stood, and Hannibal waited for him to shoo the dog out of the car’s way. As the dog had clearly been doing fine on its own, Will could send it back into the forest with a clear conscience. </p><p>Will took the dog into his arms, holding it like a sack of flour. He walked with it around to the back of the car, and tapped on the rear door. </p><p>“We are not taking the dog with us, Will.” Hannibal called over his shoulder. </p><p>“Yes we are,” Will said evenly. He knocked harder on the door. </p><p>Hannibal wondered if there was anything he’d be able to refuse Will, and then he chastised himself for somehow becoming a push-over. He unlocked the back door, and watched in the rear-view mirror as Will settled the dog down. A dog inside of Hannibal’s car, and not even a clean dog!</p><p>Will returned to the passenger seat, his hand held against his cut and a slight grimace on his face. He did up his seat belt slowly. </p><p>“Are you alright?” There was a dog in his car because Will wanted the dog. Hannibal could allow that which Will wanted. </p><p>“I’ll be ok. Can you believe… I just thought…” </p><p>“You assumed that the dog had died, and were ready to blame yourself for it.” Hannibal brought the car back up to speed, the individual leaves on the trees blurring once more into solid colours. “Even if it had been true, it wouldn’t have been your fault.” </p><p>“Regardless, it’s a relief, that I didn’t…” He pressed his palms into his eyes. “Oh man. I’m so glad he found us again.” </p><p>“I’ll be agreeable as long as it doesn’t make a mess of my car.” </p><p>As they drove, the dog curled up and slept, Will strained his neck to watch it over his shoulder, and Hannibal’s eyes continued to drift more often than not towards Will. It was a small miracle when they made their way to the motel without running off of the road, as no one was much preoccupied with focusing on driving.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hannibal's quote starting "any injury done to a man..." is from Machiavelli's <i> The Prince </i>. While Hannibal does not claim to have such an interest in politics, I do believe that he would share or at least appreciate Machiavelli's views of human nature, and especially his opinion that cruelty can be just when done for a good cause. If you disagree, feel free to debate me in the comments ;) </p><p>Note: I have updated the chapter count. See you next week for the finale!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Fruition</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hannibal and Will arrive at the motel. Perhaps the wait is over.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A long one to finish it off. I hope you enjoy! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b> 3.8 </b>
  </p>
</div>Hannibal left immediately after parking their car, heading towards the little out building with a sign marking it as the motel’s office. Will watched him until he’d disappeared, then emerged from the car slowly, his hand cradling the aching cut in his side. He unlocked the back door, and was greeted by Winston’s dark eyes. The dog had settled himself onto his side in between the suitcases.<p>“You good, buddy?” Will asked quietly. He still desperately needed sleep -- his head was beginning to spin. The dog’s eyes stayed steady on him, as if worried. Will urged him out of the car, and lifted each suitcase onto the ground with one hand before shutting the door once more. Winston waited diligently by his side.  </p><p>Hannibal had brought them to a dingy motel just off of the highway. The building stood two floors tall, shaped like a stout rectangle. Small windows and no balconies look out from the top floor, and a metal staircase curling around the far side of the building appeared to be the only way up. Will took his backpack from the passenger seat and lifted it gingerly over one shoulder, ready to climb the stairs if need be. He turned, looking towards the motel's office for Hannibal, and swung back the other way when Hannibal came up behind him. </p><p>Hannibal took Will’s backpack by the strap over his shoulder and lifted it away from him. He offered his unoccupied hand to Will to support his weight, as he had on their trek from the English building and between their dorms only hours earlier. Will shook his head — he would walk on his own this time. </p><p>Hannibal held still for a moment, waiting for Will to change his mind. Once they were both certain that Will wouldn’t be giving in, Hannibal turned to collect the suitcases from behind the car. He managed all three at once, and led the procession towards the motel. </p><p>“We are in room seven. It’s on the ground floor.” Hannibal said briskly. “The motel only supplies one key, which you may have whenever you need.” </p><p>Will exhaled sharply as an uneven step pulled at his cut. He tried to be thankful that Hannibal had gotten them a room on the bottom floor. He hated to have needed special consideration, and his discomfort came out in his tone. “But you get to be the holder of the key, then?” </p><p>“I did pay for the room.” </p><p>“I offered to give you my money.” It was an empty argument, and they both knew it. Hannibal made no attempt to continue, and Will managed to stop himself from dragging it on with another half-weighted statement. He was tired, hurting, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. They were both on edge. It was annoying that Hannibal seemed to be handling the strain better. </p><p>Will watched Hannibal slide the room key easily into the lock, then struggle to get the door open. He pushed the door forwards once delicately, and finding no movement tried again with more force. The door stubbornly stayed as it was until Hannibal checked one shoulder against it. The door gave way, its bottom edge scraping over a stiff off-white rug. </p><p>Hannibal's face did a funny half-grimace as he tried and failed to hide his distaste. He stepped slowly into the room, and Will let Winston follow directly after him. Once they were all inside, Will closed the door, plunging the room into a grey near-dark. There was a single bed in the center, placed atop the terrible rug. Their window, which would have a view of the parking lot, was covered by a checkered curtain. Hannibal looked back at Will and asked what he thought of the room. </p><p>“Looks like a good number of the motels that I stayed in with my dad. Feels like home sweet home.” Will said humorlessly. It was accurate, but insignificant. All cheap motel rooms looked more or less the same. </p><p>“If you are speaking truthfully, Will, then perhaps we should have discussed living arrangements sooner.” The wrinkles of distaste from how Hannibal had worried his face had  yet to vanish. He flicked on the lamp beside the bed. </p><p>“Unfortunately, I’m not kidding. Don’t worry though — that only means that I have more reason to dislike this than you.” </p><p>“Bad memories?” </p><p>Will moved around Hannibal to take in the rest of the room. The three piece bathroom, the uninspired stock painting and crooked mirror as the only decorations. “Not many, actually. This part of my life wasn’t really interesting enough to create any lasting memories at all.” </p><p>Hannibal smoothed down a corner of the comforter, then sat on the bed. He looked to it distrustfully. </p><p>The soft daylight through the curtain lit Hannibal’s down-tilted chin, turned him flawless and regal like a Greek statue — high cheekbones, hooded eyes, closed lips. He hadn’t ever looked so human to Will as now, although the spark of life did not seem to be his own. Hannibal’s humanity was only present as if it had been passed on to him by someone else, as if he was some artwork made human by absorbing pieces of its creator. The jacket that he wore, long and hanging open around him, was a fragment of modern day labor around his historic, untouchable presence. His presence in this motel room was suddenly terribly anachronistic</p><p>Hannibal wasn’t from here, nor did he exist now. He’d been taken from some long ago time, some far away place, and given to Will like a lion placed into a pen with a wolf. Not a gift, but not exactly a punishment either. More a test, as if some old god or ancient king wished to watch them interacting in some sort of planned experiment. </p><p>A triangle of Hannibal’s skin rose and fell with his shallow breaths, bare above his shirt collar. It called to Will, as alluring as the cold marble of a statue against the summer heat. Hannibal, utterly unaware of the hungry way that Will’s eyes were gliding over him, reached for the TV remote. The tip of his collarbones dipped free from his shirt with the movement. </p><p>The TV flicked on at the same time as Will descended forwards. He brought himself up against Hannibal’s legs, tired and wanting and unable to hold back any longer. He pressed the pads of two fingers onto Hannibal’s skin above his shirt collar. In the dimly lit room, the colours of the TV shone against Hannibal and lit him slightly purple, slightly gold, slightly blue. He was a sculpture, stone cold, frozen, now touched by Will’s hot-blooded hands. All of the air in the room seemed to press in between them. </p><p>Hannibal froze underneath Will’s touch, but made no move to push him off or to bend away. Will lifted his fingers away only for as long as it took him to instead place his whole palm against Hannibal’s skin. He took his other hand and undid the top button of Hannibal’s shirt, allowing the material to fall open and expose more of Hannibal’s collarbones, more cold stone for Will to press his heat into. </p><p>Hannibal was trying to catch Will’s eye, to ask him without words. Will didn’t want to explain. He had nothing to say for himself, no explanation or thought to give. He kept his gaze over Hannibal’s chest. It rose and fell — Will’s life beginning to infiltrate Hannibal’s stone form. Mutterings from the TV moved lazily around them, and a shuffling of the curtain let a line of daylight fall across Hannibal’s thighs. </p><p>Will slid his hand slowly, slowly up Hannibal's neck. He felt Hannibal’s throat move beneath the touch as he swallowed or breathed. Moving upwards and cupping the side of Hannibal’s jaw, Will felt fine hairs which he brushed against their grain. Hannibal’s eyes trailed the movement as best they could. His hands remained stuck in place on either side of him. </p><p>Will let his hand trail up into Hannibal’s hair. It was softer that he’d thought it would be, and cool against his fingers. He clenched his hand into it, pulling it softly, tilting Hannibal’s head back. The statue was stiff to bend, but gave in with some coaxing. Will finally let Hannibal’s eyes catch his own, only for a second. Only for long enough to see his own hunger reflected back at him. He closed his eyes as he bent his face to Hannibal’s and their lips caught. </p><p>Hannibal stood up, bringing Will with him, gaining use of his arms and looping one steadily around Will’s back, the other snaking up to grasp behind Will’s neck. The statue had been gifted with Will’s breath of life, warm lips against cool stone, now lips against lips. Hannibal, more of a monster than a man, more of a god than a man, brought down to Will’s level. Brought once more into the grasps of humanity. Stripped of his wings, his horns, his unfeeling heart. Stripped of his title as ‘other’. </p><p>Saved. Hannibal had been saved. He’d known what needed to happen all the way back in the river. He hadn’t realized, or hadn’t wanted to admit, who needed to be saved. Who needed to play the savior. It was suddenly all so clear. </p><p>Will stepped away from their embrace, brought out of his thoughts and back to the motel room by a sting of discomfort from the cut in his side. Hannibal’s hand lingered around Will’s neck, and he moved it to Will’s cheek. </p><p>“Thank you,” Hannibal said. </p><p>Will let out a quick laugh, and tried to cover it by clearing his throat. “Not that I have much experience kissing other guys, Hannibal, but I’m pretty sure that the standard isn’t to say ‘thank you’ afterwards.” </p><p>Hannibal stroked his thumb across Will’s cheek. His eyes were locked on Will’s; however, when Will tried to connect their gaze, he found that Hannibal was looking more through him than truly at him. “I could have waited for longer, but not by much. I couldn’t have made it that nice for you, had I been compelled to initiate it. So a ‘thank you’, on behalf of both of us, I believe is in order.” </p><p>“You’ve been waiting?” Will asked. Had Hannibal been waiting for a kiss, or to be woken up, to be brought to life, to be made human? </p><p>“The majority of life is spent waiting, as is the curse of a species so infatuated with the idea of progression. Constant movement means constant change, and when things are always changing, one is always waiting for the change to occur. I have waited longer for actions much less pleasant.” Hannibal blinked, and his eyes refocused so that he looked at Will instead of through him. This, it turned out, was nearly worse. Will felt incapacitated. He became helpless under Hannibal’s gaze. He’d given him too much life and made Hannibal too strong. </p><p>“Hannibal-” </p><p>“For you Will, I didn’t mind the wait, but nothing has tasted sweeter than this arrival.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> *** </p>
</div>Hannibal sat in an armchair, legs spread, one hand curled possessive over each arm rest. In his imagination, he sat on a leather chair in the tightly packed, dusty library of his youth. The air, if he concentrated hard enough, smelled of old paper and slightly of cigarette smoke, just as it had all those years ago.<p>Physically, Hannibal sat on the faded and scratchy chair in their motel room, his back to the shaded window. Ahead of him, Will was falling into sleep curled up on their bed. He resembled everything that Hannibal had ever loved, which only meant everything that had ever set his blood cold in his veins, because Hannibal had never been good at keeping the things that he loved close enough that they didn’t break. </p><p>He thought of his library, so different from the one at their school. He thought of bashful eyes meeting his from above an open book, and blushing cheeks when she looked down again. He thought of fingers brushing against mugs of coffee, and meeting together in the pass-off. That had been something similar, but had it been love? </p><p>What was love, to Hannibal? This was: The back of her neck held in his palm, her head falling lifelessly back. The rush of adrenaline as the last rush of breath escaped her lips, and the knowledge that the bad things she had done would never be attempted again, for the hands that had done them could no longer move on their own. Yes, that was the closest to how he felt with Will, how he had felt when Will had kissed him. The only thing that even held a candle to kissing Will. </p><p>And yet, the library. He kept retreating into his thoughts, into the library. Why? Hadn’t he built himself something better, here with Will? Maybe his having done so was the difficulty. The library — his sanctuary, his breath of peace —  now only existed in fragmented pieces in his mind’s eye. Painfully, the memories of the library whole and good were mostly overshadowed by those of red hot fire. So different from red hot blood across his hands, one the destruction of a life and the other only murder. </p><p>So he was weary, to have been granted access to Will. It was impossibly difficult to not pick him up off the bed and cram him into the trunk of the car, drive him somewhere secret, kill him slowly so that the pain could be gotten over with. He’d told Will that the kiss had been the end of the waiting — this was only partly true. Now came the second, the infinite wait: that until one of them died or moved on. </p><p>Will leaving him would be the library burnt to the ground on repeat. It would be every life he had ever taken, all played backwards so that instead of bliss he would feel only apprehension. Their time together was to be constantly tainted by this ultimate end, for what other option existed? </p><p>Hannibal leveled his gaze over Will. The poor boy had melted into the mattress. He hadn’t bothered to get himself under the blankets, and they remained tucked tightly around the corners of the bed, pulled taught underneath him. The dog slept near him, on the ground. Will’s breathing, as Hannibal watched, became more and more even until he was truly asleep. Even as tired as he was, his body having given up on movement, his brain had not allowed him to fall quickly into sleep. He was always thinking, calculating, even to his own detriment. </p><p>Hannibal wanted to allow himself to sink, as Will finally had, into the comfort of this moment. The room around them in the dim light could have nearly been anything he wanted it to be. The TV continued to provide a low background whisper and a dazing stream of subdued flickering colours. A feeling of arrival filled the room; they had made it to the next stage of their lives, and in this instance the universe seemed to be telling them that they could sleep now, relax, let their guard down just for a second. Breathe. </p><p>It was just as Hannibal had felt in that old library, dusty book in his hand, pleasant little company, the movement of air through slow vents. He’d believe it, then. He’d allowed himself to get comfortable and had been met only by a cruel reminder of how little he was truly in control of. He’d had control of Will, once, at least more so than he had now. That had been safer. </p><p>The library wouldn’t have burned if Hannibal had determined its every move, called its every choice. </p><p>He felt once more the urge to trap Will in the back of the car and cart him somewhere far away. He could bring Will to a country where he didn’t speak the language, take away all of his possessions, block off all of his connections. Force Will to fall entirely into his debt, utterly in need of his help and support. That would be easier. </p><p>Will’s chest rose and fell smoothly. One of his hands rested lightly over the side where his injury was hidden under his shirt, and the other cradled his face against the mattress. His lips were slightly parted, and his eyelashes curled darkly towards the bags under his eyes. He was not fragile nor needy. He would not enjoy life in Hannibal’s shadow. Although Hannibal couldn’t isolate when exactly it had happened, a switch had flipped and he’d begun to care whether or not Will was happy. </p><p>Hannibal kicked his crossed feet onto the ground and stood. For a moment, his eyes were drawn to the TV’s flickering light. The intelligible hum emanating from it, encompassing some unnamable emotion, reminded Hannibal of his own thoughts when he’d held Will’s body in his arms. He stumbled forwards and found his sketchbook among their hastily gathered suitcases. </p><p>He could capture the moment in a way that would be more permanent, as an alternate solution to binding Will in place. So that even when Will managed to leave him, Hannibal would still have a piece of this memory. </p><p>The walk back to the armchair was slow, uneven, as he opened the sketchbook and flipped through the pages. The sketch of Will’s form walking away from him, drawn from memory in the library back before he’d known even Will’s name, seemed to force itself open before him. Then, so badly, he had wanted to know more. He had thought nothing of the desire that had pulled him so forcefully, mistaking it for interest and nothing more.</p><p>He’d gotten so much wrong. The drawing could hardly be considered a true portrayal of Will — he was there in form, proportions for the most part correct. His essence, however, was missing. Misrepresented. It was a disservice to have left Will so empty, devoid of his so unique nature, ever present and visible now that Hannibal knew better what he was looking for. </p><p>He retrieved a soft pencil, 6B or even 8B, and pressed it firmly to a blank page. That first time drawing Will, he’d started with a firmer graphite and worked up from there. That process was cautious, wary. To properly represent Will, the drawing needed to be made with sure strokes, dark and thick and unfixable should they come out imperfect. </p><p>With the muse/model here for his reference, Hannibal’s hand worked quickly, his eyes spending only brief seconds to watch the pencil across the page. He had to force himself to look away from Will’s sleeping form. Each time he had to deprive his eyes of Will  to see how the drawing was coming along, his heart clenched. Some part deep within him frightened each time he looked away from Will, as if it expected him to vanish in between glances. </p><p>A lock of Will’s hair curled over his forehead, and Hannibal sketched it onto the page briskly with two parting lines. He outlined Will’s torso and legs in a similar, simple style: one line for the curve of his back, just a swipe of shading to separate his bent legs. Will’s hands, both with their fingers spread, and his eyes, creased lightly with ever-present worry, took longer. Hannibal hesitated to do so, but couldn’t help himself from switching to a harder lead to fill in some minute details on Will’s face, neck, and hands. The shading there was too fine and delicate to be done any other way. </p><p>He finished by returning to the soft pencil and circling dark lines around the edges of the paper, close together to create a solid black background. He spiraled the darkness in farther and farther towards Will, and had planned to continue all the way in. His hand stopped three quarters of the page in. The remaining white page appeared to shine out from Will, as if he was brightening the night, lit from within. </p><p>Hannibal breathed in and out. He slid his gaze up from the drawing to the real Will only feet away from him. His adoration and longing, his utter devotion to the boy on the bed stopped Hannibal from draggin the pencil any farther across the page. Will should not be encased in darkness. To keep him shut out from the light would be a sin, a bloodier crime than any Hannibal had ever committed. </p><p>He slid the pencils back into their case, and let the sketchbook down onto his lap, still open to the drawing. The noise and flickering light from the TV filled the room pleasantly, clouding Hannibal’s thoughts yet magnifying his emotional tone. He would allow Will to be kept in the light.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> ***</p>
</div><p>Will awoke to Winston’s wet tongue licking across his hand. He slowly sat up, scratching Winston behind the ears before withdrawing his hand and stretching his arms up towards the ceiling. It took him a moment to remember where he was, and why the bed underneath him was both wider and stiffer than the bed in his dorm room. </p><p>The motel. Hannibal. Will’s eyes scanned a lap of the small room to find him, and caught him sitting sunk into the one and only arm chair. Hannibal’s phone shone pale light across his face, and his eyes darted back and forth as he read whatever was on the screen. His sketchbook sat discarded on his lap, and his other hand rested protectively over it. </p><p>From the way that the blinds were lit brightly from behind, Will guessed that it was sometime around midday. He thought back to the last time he’d eaten, and could only remember the champagne from the ball. Focusing on the way the bubbles had fizzed against his tongue made Will’s mouth water — he was hungrier than he’d realized. </p><p>“What are-” Will’s voice came out scratchy and strained from sleep. He cleared his throat and tried again, Hannibal’s attention now actively on him. “What are you reading?” </p><p>Hannibal glanced back down at his phone as he spoke. “The school’s website. There’s a ‘news’ tab that I’ve been keeping track of.” </p><p>“Anything about us?” Will slid off of the bed and walked around it to look at Hannibal’s phone over his shoulder. </p><p>“No. Nothing since we left.” Hannibal turned his phone off abruptly and set both it and his sketchbook down on the chair as he stood. “How was your sleep?” </p><p>Will bit his lip as his eyes ran down Hannibal’s face. The memory of their kiss, and of his tired, hazy state during it, shoved itself violently to the forefront of his brain. He couldn’t remember it as well as he would have liked, the moment mixing already with the myriad of intense emotions he’d been through in such a short amount of time. It took a great amount of willpower to not lunch forward and catch Hannibal in another kiss now. He would have, he could have, but there was something he wanted to do first. </p><p>“My nap was well-needed, although I’m still tired.” Will took a step back to pat down his pockets. “Are you hungry? I’m going to go find a vending machine — there must be one around here somewhere.”</p><p>Hannibal’s lip curled up in distaste at ‘vending machine.’ “No, thank you.” </p><p>“Are you sure? I could get you a bag of Cheez-Its.” Will enjoyed watching Hannibal’s lip curl up far enough to expose a hint of his teeth. “You haven’t eaten for as long as I have; you must be hungry, too.” </p><p>“I find myself occupied by stronger desires when I’m with you. Food does not hold much interest.”</p><p>“You’re not gonna last very long with me around, then. How long can a person go without eating again?” </p><p>Hannibal drew his eyebrows together, displeased with Will’s joke. Will shrugged and leaned towards the door, then doubled back. He reached Hannibal and lifted one hand to touch his upper arm as a goodbye. At the contact, any trace of discontentment washed off of Hannibal’s face. His body tensed like he was restraining himself. </p><p>“I’ll be back in a second, okay?” </p><p>“Of course, Will.” </p><p>Will wanted to… oh, he wanted to do so many things. But he still had to do that other thing, first. He pulled himself away from Hannibal, and turned to the door. </p><p>Will exited the motel room with their room key jangling in his pants pocket. The blank, white daylight washed out his vision, turning everything into shades of too-bright grey. He squinted against it. A vending machine stood against the side of the building two doors down; Will walked in the other direction. </p><p>He slipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew it holding a shiny, silver object. He hadn’t been searching for change or spare coins — instead, he held the necklace once more, the necklace that Hannibal had given him. The one he’d told Hannibal he would wear as a sign that he’d always stay. </p><p>There had been brief moments in his recent past where Will had craved the idea of a symbol to mark his connection with Hannibal. The appeal rested in the secure, tangible knowledge that someone actually wanted him. He supposed it was similar to the idea of a wedding ring, or in different circumstances some types of tattoos. </p><p>He wanted to be with Hannibal, and he wanted others to know. This was still true. No longer, though, did Will want the necklace as a marker of his decision to stay. He wanted Hannibal to trust that he would always return without needing to see tangible proof of concept. If their relationship needed large gestures and physical objects to prove its worth, then surely it was lacking a solid foundation. </p><p>The necklace’s pendant in his hand was still oddly warm. He entwined the chain though his fingers instead. The other option, the one that he wasn’t planning to take and hadn’t thought of until now, would be to buy an equally ambiguous necklace for Hannibal. Two gifts to signal possession, or none at all. Will couldn’t start their relationship on uneven ground. </p><p>He’d finished walking the length of the motel, and had arrived at a tangle of thick bushes that stood between the building and the highway. A discarded fast-food wrapper blew past his foot, and lodged itself against the bottom of the plant. The area smelled of gasoline. It was a terrible location, and no place to put anything of value. It was not the resting place that the necklace deserved, but it was the best Will could do. </p><p>Will held the pendant up to his lips and whispered a goodbye. As a last minute adjustment, he broke the chain away and returned it safely to his pocket. The pendant, after a moment of holding it tightly in his clenched fist, Will lobbed into the bushes. It arced into the air, and tumbled down into the thorny grasps of the bushes. Will couldn’t have retrieved it if he’d tried. </p><p>What would he and Hannibal do now? They could do anything, go anywhere. The freedom was overwhelming when Will really thought about it. All he needed to know was what he would do right now. Right this moment, Hannibal was waiting for him back in the hotel room. Now was Will’s first chance to show Hannibal that he would always return after straying. He wouldn’t make Hannibal wait any longer.</p><p>(Ok, maybe just a minute longer. He had enough change in his pocket for something small from the vending machine.)</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p><b> The End </b> </p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading all the way to the end. I really hope that you enjoyed it. I would love to hear your thoughts! </p><p>Wow, I can't believe this is over! This fic is the longest thing I've ever written (nearly twice as long as the second-longest), and I have definitely learned a lot. I may write more for this pairing, but I'm gonna take a little break first. </p><p>Come chat with me on Tumblr! I'm infinate-sky :) </p><p>Thanks again for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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